


Witchcraft

by Quillfiend



Series: Synheart [1]
Category: League of Legends
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fantasy, Magic, Murder, Teacher/Student
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 07:25:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17976938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillfiend/pseuds/Quillfiend
Summary: After being set free from her prison, Syndra wanders westward in search of clarity or death. When she's found by an ancient warlock, she decides to become an apprentice for one last time; an unlikely bond of friendship develops between the two once they discover they have more in common than they thought.





	1. A New Life

**Author's Note:**

> I never liked the strange disconnect between Syndra's in-game personality and her backstory, so I wrote a story that is meant to fit between her release from prison and her ascension to the dark sovereign she is today.

Syndra had never been to Valoran before, though it filled her with the same despair as Ionia did. It mattered not that the landscape was different, that the animals of its forests had more or less legs; they all beheld her with the same fright as her family did, as everybody in Ionia did. She tried to glean the knowledge of time from the sky and the trees, to tell how long she had spent in her prison, but neither had an answer for her.

She was cold, and she was angry. She wished to question the latter, but she knew well she could not allow that; her fury was the only thing keeping her going. Reviled by all she had ever met, to let go of her ire meant to let go of the single thought that justified her entire existence; the dark pit on the other side was one she'd not escape so easily, perhaps ever.

Still, even as hatred and rage shook her every limb, she could not stave off the terrible sorrow begging to be heard. In all her life, she was called nothing but misfortune; where other children saw joy and pride and love, she had only seen fear and disgust in the eyes of her mother. While her body may have healed, her soul still felt the hits of her brother as if he had beaten her just yesterday.

Breathing had gotten hard with the terrible aching in her chest. She ducked beneath one of the many oaks of the unnamed Valoran forest and tried not to glance up at it boughs, heavier by the moment as they soaked in her dark energies. She raked its fallen leaves together to make herself a damp bedding, and at last felt a speckle of relief when her ivory hair fell over her face and concealed an ugly expression of grief.

She tried to recall her last memories. A teacher who had betrayed her... Like all the others. A prison, made not to just contain her, but force her to relive what was perhaps the direst moment of her young life, over and over. Invaders that had awakened her, not to free her from her torment but in hopes of using her as a weapon against their enemies.

The oak above her howled and cracked as Syndra's antipathy manifested as swirling dark magic, a corrupting force that made the world around feel as she did. And she wept, not for the oak or the world or even herself; she wept for the hated, the outcasts and the lost, because she knew that just like her, there was no hope for them.

 

When she woke up in a lavish bed full of warmth and velvet pillows, Syndra prayed that she had died. The stars hanging above her in an astromantic diagram certainly alluded to this, and she hadn't known a single person that would ever let her lie in a bed like that. This was most definitely the afterlife, or a carefully crafted trap, or both.

She had no idea how she got there in the first place. She was in a forest before; did she slumber for another century? Did her dark magic transform the howling wood into this chamber? That was unlikely.

She knew that the most reasonable course of action was to get up and prepare herself for a fight, but she couldn't bring herself to do that. Instead she buried herself deeper beneath the cozy blankets, enjoying this moment of rest. Her anger relented a bit then, tricked into slumber by the momentary solace, and the young sorceress was at once overcome by a deep melancholy. She forced her eyes shut with fierce stubbornness, determined to stop the tears from flowing. Then, somebody _patted_ her.

"There there, dark child," a squeaky voice said to her, "do not weep for the forest! It had it coming, I'm sure, being so obnoxiously green and leafy."

"What?" Syndra looked up from the pillows and at the creature talking to her. It was... Small, and wearing a hat that was certainly too big for it. She wasn't entirely sure who or what it was.

"Of course, so much uncontrolled power is _very troublesome,_ " the tiny shrouded thing continued, "we'll need to do something about that."

She recoiled from its metal gauntlet, throwing her blanket aside. Her dark energy was with her at once, manifesting as three inky globes above her head. "It's mine. I'm not giving it to you."

"Of course you aren't..."

The little being squinted in a devilish smile, and Syndra knew then that it was a trap. The spheres around her expanded in size quickly, and the room shook with her sheer power. The creature before her reached for its own staff and tried to stop her, but it was too late now; the stone floor collapsed beneath them and they were sent hurling downwards. The entire building was being torn down, and Syndra was reminded of the last moments before her imprisonment. An irrational fear struck her, a thought that she was about to be imprisoned again, and her distress only accelerated the cataclysm; stone and wood swallowed them, burying them both underneath the heavy rubble.

For some reason, Syndra didn't feel its weight on top of her. Her knees and hands hurt from the bruises, but she was safe from the crushing debris. She squinted into the dark around her and then, in a spark of violet magic, the ruins around her flew off in all directions. The small creature that had threatened her before lowered its staff and dispelled the protective bubble it had conjured over the both of them.

"You absolute dingus!" Syndra's captor screeched and, before she could do anything about it, bonked her head with its staff, "what was that for?! My tower!"

"I won't let you take my power!" she yelled back, rubbing her head, "it's mine, do you understand? Mine! I've suffered much for it!"

"I don't want to _take_ your power, you blasted baboon! I'll make you into my apprentice, and together we will usher the world in darkness!"

"Apprentice?" Syndra stuttered, the memories of her former master rushing through her head as the tiny being cackled at its demonic plan, "I had a teacher once, and he betrayed me."

"Was he the greatest dark wizard to have ever lived?" asked the robed creature as it began digging through the rubble. After a moment, it lifted a hefty grimoire from the debris, and cheered so loudly it made Syndra wince.

"He was a monk," she mumbled, "I trusted him, but he only wanted to imprison me."

"Monks," the dark wizard snorted derisively, "what do they know? How to 'meditate' in their huts and preach nonsense, perhaps."

Syndra smiled wearily, for the first time in centuries. She found herself at a crossroad; she could challenge the little dark spirit and continue on her solitary path, or try it once more, reach out for the very last time. She was frightened of the dark places she'd get to see if she was to suffer one more betrayal.

"You're fortunate that I wasn't too fond of that particular tower," the tiny wizard extended a plated hand towards her, "are you going to lie around all day, or will we get us a new one?"

Syndra grabbed the offered hand, not expecting the petite creature to actually, well, help her up to her full height when it barely reached her hips. She was mistaken; while it could not match her in size, it had enough power to send it surging through her and make her ascent all that easier. It was a strange experience, though also oddly calming. Reassuring.

"My name is Syndra," she finally spoke her name when her new master began hopping away. She tired of being called 'apprentice' quickly _._ "Who are you? _What_ are you?"

"Have I not said already?" her companion huffed, "I am darkness incarnate, malice supreme. I suppose you can call me Veigar. Or master Veigar, that's even better."

"Veigar will have to do," Syndra mumbled and pulled her rags closer to her body, "where are we going to find another tower?"

"You'll see in due time, little one," Veigar hissed, "I've this one rival..."

 

The land Syndra walked with Veigar was beautiful. He explained that they found themselves at the northern borders of Demacia, and that the icy Freljord was just over the majestic mountains that lined the horizon. Syndra heard many tales of the snow-born warriors as a child, most of them told to scare her and her siblings into listening to their parents. To be kidnapped by the mysterious frost raiders and be turned into an ice statue - a fate young Syndra feared even more than her brothers.

"We must be a little careful," Veigar said as they waded through a tall, green field, "the countryside isn't so bad, but every now and then you run into an overzealous monster hunter. They are a bother."

"Hm?" Syndra hummed idly, her gaze fixated on the snowy peaks. Ionia had its own mountains, but none so tall. She felt almost humbled to be looking at those skybound giants.

"Demacia doesn't like magic much, as you will soon see. They see sorcerers as monsters. Come here, girl."

She didn't even register his call, her mind absent, wandering the distant summits. She almost stumbled on Veigar when he stopped in front of her.

"And pay attention," he chided her when she regained her balance and beckoned her down to himself. She ducked, expecting whispers about a secret attack plan; she was surprised when he instead took off his navy overcloak and draped it over her shoulders. It barely reached to her waist, but still made her a little warmer.

"We'll find you something proper once we're at Ronzel's tower," he assured her, "you have magic, so let it course through your body. It will warm you up a little."

She stared into his yellow eyes, at first thankful, then ashamed. She had no idea how to do that, but she didn't want to admit; she simply nodded and stood up again.

"Who is this Ronzel?" Syndra asked when they set off again, her eyes now glued to the back of the petite wizard. He looked even smaller without his cape.

"An imbecile," Veigar snorted and adjusted his oversized hat, "a pretend-wizard that didn't make it in the south so he came to terrify the villagers here."

"You said Demacians didn't like magic here."

"Yes, but Demacia is also currently at war with Noxus," Veigar pointed eastward, "they don't have soldiers for every single country hamlet, especially this close to the Freljord."

Syndra nodded, pretending she had at least a modicum of knowledge about the nations mentioned, and remained silent for the rest of their journey. The wild fields soon turned into sprawling meadows, full of flowery patches that obstinately refused to bow to the coming autumn, and as they began approaching a crystalline lake lining the northwestern side of the verdant pastures, Syndra could finally see their destination.

The village overlooked by Ronzel's tower sat right across the lake, just beneath the towering mountains. With the sun slowly falling in the west, the hamlet was hidden in cool shade, and Syndra could only guess that it wasn't the warmest of places. She shuddered, and then again when her sandals started sinking into the muddy beach that surrounded the mere. Veigar, oblivious to her struggles, made his way straight to a small mooring nearby, their only way to the other side. With much squelching and squishing, Syndra scampered after him.

"Old man!" Veigar hollered at the sullen ferryman guarding the pier, "wake up! We need a ride."

"No visitors allowed to Berwick today," said the elder, "the warlock's orders."

"Aha." The wooden pier creaked under Veigar's feet. "And why is that, I wonder?"

"A wedding, little one." The boatsman leaned on his oar and away from Veigar, wary of the dark wizard baring his sharp teeth at him.

"Who is getting married?" Syndra asked before Veigar could chide the old man for having called him _little._ She received only stares and silence in response, and it took Veigar smacking the helmsman over the knees with his staff to make him talk again.

"The warlock is to take fair Adaline as his bride," the ferryman said and sighed again, "my little girl did nothing to deserve this fate. Curse the wizards, and curse this war. If not for Noxus, the king would've sent a monster hunter long ago."

Syndra and Veigar exchanged blank stares. The dark sorcerer then turned back to the elder, waving his staff about.

"How about we make you a deal?" Veigar asked, "you take us to Berwick, and we kill the wizard."

"But you are no monster hunters," the ferryman argued, "there are no yordles among the king's men an women."

 _Yordles,_ Syndra thought to herself. Was that what Veigar was? She'd never seen one before, only heard of them through fairytales. She thought they were tiny forest spirits, not furry little men.

"Obviously, but—"

"But I am a monk from Ionia," Syndra interrupted the dark wizard, her dull voice giving away none of the lie, "we can, uh, we can take away one's vile magic with a single touch."

"Yes, that," Veigar waved his staff in her direction, quick to catch on to the ruse, "and I'm along to make sure nothing goes wrong. So?"

The ferryman eyed them for a good while, saying nothing. Syndra was starting to think that he saw through their sham, but then he sighed and stepped out of their way to let them on the rowboat. Clearly he was desperate enough to believe a dirty girl in rags and her squeaky companion.

"Please, be careful with the warlock," the old man coughed when Syndra and Veigar seated themselves in the shaky skiff, "he won't hesitate to use Adaline as a hostage."

"Of course," Veigar huffed, crossing his arms, "how else would I take Ronzel's bride for myself?"

The ferryman almost choked at the notion, and Veigar had to hook him with his staff so the poor elder would not fall into the lake. Syndra snorted.

"A mere jest, obviously," the dark wizard sneered, "now row, or we'll find another village to 'liberate'..."

 

When they finally reached the wharf on the other side, the sun had long since set. The entire hamlet glowed with lamplights, a quaint sight beneath the starry Demacian sky. With the village spiraling upwards to the warlock's tower, Syndra and Veigar had a good view of what was going on from the bottom dock.

"Do you have a plan?" Syndra asked when the ferryman let them off the dinghy. Veigar brushed a few splinters off his legs.

"A lesson, rather," he said and beckoned her to follow him through the cobbled streets, "I will deal with Ronzel and you will watch and do nothing."

"What?" Syndra growled, "what's that good for?"

"Girl, you blasted my tower to smithereens after two misunderstood sentences," Veigar hissed and poked her hip; he couldn't comfortably reach higher. "You need a lesson in self-control."

"So that's what it's about," she snapped at him, "you just want to restrain me like everybody else!"

"No, I want to direct your power in a meaningful way," he barked, "do you think I've not been where you are now, young and full of power and ready to blast everybody?"

Syndra huffed and crossed her arms. Veigar quickly scouted the street before them for company; when he came to the conclusion that everybody was at the tower wedding, he tapped his staff against the ground. A cobble and dirt pillar lifted him upwards until his eyes were on the same level as Syndra's. The young witch stopped.

"Don't make the same mistake I did," said the dark wizard, somehow forcing a modicum of gravity into his pitched voice, "and end up in terrible places because your enemies were more careful than you."

"I'm more powerful than you ever were." Syndra stared at him coldly. "I cannot be broken."

"Is that how you ended up moping in a dying forest? By being unbreakable and indomitable?" he threw the harsh truth right into her face, and she couldn't defiantly stare into his eyes anymore. She looked aside, frowning.

"You'll have plenty opportunities to tear and bite and burst," Veigar dispelled the rocky pillar beneath his feet and jumped back onto the street, "when you're no longer a danger to yourself."

She could feel immense anger building within her again, not because he insulted her but because he was _right_ and she _hated_ it. With her eyes glued to his back, a violent thought flashed through her head: who would stop her if she killed the tower wizard, then Veigar and then everybody in Berwick? She owed them nothing. She owed Veigar nothing. He kidnapped her and scared her and lectured her and...

He gave her his coat. She was reminded of this when she pulled it closer in the chilly night, and her rage relented a little. She didn't want to fight him, not when he was the single person that didn't treat her with contempt.

"Such long legs she's got and she's slower than a baby raptor," Veigar's taunt pulled her out of her thoughts. She puffed her cheeks and hurried after him. At least climbing up Berwick's narrow streets made her warmer...

 

The wizard was serious about not wanting any unexpected guests; that much was obvious from the locked gate leading to the tower's courtyard. Looking up, Syndra noticed how smooth the mountain wall behind it was; it seemed something else stood there in place of the tower once, probably torn down by the warlock. All the stone blocks and planks the spire was built of seemed notably newer than those used in the construction of the rest of Berwick; they were polished and unweathered, with no dirt or ivy to speak of. The only thing dotting the pristine walls were little garish lanterns, presumably to mark the joyous occassion.

Syndra was surprised to not hear any cheer from the other side, but she chalked it up to a different tradition. She wanted to ask Veigar about it, but the petite sorcerer immediately turned to the two villagers that were apparently stuck with guard duty.

"Open," he said dryly to them, "we're invited."

"I'm not sure," one of the men replied; he was hardly a soldier, rather a farmer or a fisherman who was given a sword he couldn't even use. His companion chuckled.

"You're making this way harder on yourself that it needs to be," Veigar noted, "open the gate or I will kill you and then open it myself."

"Oh, really?" the other rancher-guard taunted him, "and how would the squeaky squirrel do that? Throw nuts at us?"

They started laughing, and Veigar squinted. Syndra wanted to step in, but the dark wizard was quicker to react.

Everything that followed - that she had to witness - changed her. Syndra had killed people before in her life - first her teacher, then the soldiers that unearthed her prison. In both cases her mind wasn't entirely there, and it was always so... Quick and clean. She got angry, her spheres pierced through them and they fell to the ground, and that was it. She never looked into a man's eyes to watch life being drained from him, not before now.

When Veigar's dark magic pressed the mocking farmer against the wall, Syndra almost yelped in surprise, though her eyes remained set on the man. She watched as Veigar's spell grew in force, and she didn't believe until the very last moment that he would truly kill him; when the poor villager literally _burst_ under the pressure, Syndra winced. Nausea hit her together with the man's remains and she was forced to bend over and cough out whatever was left in her empty stomach. And somewhere beyond her veil of white hair, she heard the dark wizard chuckle maliciously, so happy with what he had just done.

The other man dropped his sword and ran away.

"Everything alright?" Veigar asked after a moment, pushing Syndra's mane behind her shoulders, where she couldn't get its tips dirty with blood and whatever else was now on the muddy ground. She nodded, and he turned back to the gate.

"Stay behind me," he said, and the very same magic that turned the villager into paste blasted the gate open. Syndra straightened up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand; her eyes were immediately set on a disgruntled and mildly shocked man across the courtyard. The villagers were gathered around him in a half-circle, neatly sat around a long table. They were all sullen and fearful like the ferryman, though Syndra couldn't tell if this was caused by the strange wedding or Veigar's abrupt entrance.

"You?!" the standing man yelled; he was dressed much better than the guests and so was the woman standing next to him, and Syndra could only guess that he was the wizard, Ronzel. "You promised to never—to never show here again!"

"I changed my mind," Veigar waved his staff, "I want the tower. You have five seconds to disappear. That goes for everybody who doesn't want to die today."

The gathered people of Berwick were smarter than their kinsmen at the gate, and so they did their best to scram; some pressed themselves to the walls, some hid under the table, some ran around Syndra and Veigar back into the village. The warlock's bride wanted to do the same, but he grabbed her by the wrist before she could run.

"We had a deal!" Ronzel hissed, "Doran's Lost Star for Berwick!"

"Hm, yes," Veigar nodded, climbing one of the chairs and then the long table, "but then I remembered that I could have both, so here I am."

Ronzel pierced the little wizard with his flaming eyes, then yanked the poor bride's wrist and dragged her into his tower before Veigar could turn him into a pile of ash. His dark bolt missed and dissipated in the chilly night; Syndra was certain he could obliterate Ronzel if he wanted to, but he didn't want to damage the tower.

"Come," he beckoned her, slid off the table and set out towards the tower, "he has nowhere to run. He's just posturing."

Still trying to forget what she had seen in front of the gate, Syndra hurried after the yordle mage and into the spire. The door wasn't locked; the warlock didn't have time for that as he fled up the tower. Veigar didn't seem to be in a rush, walking the stairs at a leisurely pace - like a wolf approaching its cornered prey. There was much cruelty in the small man, a trait Syndra found both frightening and admirable.

"It is a good, sturdy build," Veigar noted when they reached the first resident level. It was effectively one large common room, panelled with wood; every one of its six wall had a window in it, providing a great view of the village below. It was also terribly messy; Ronzel clearly didn't care to tidy his abode.

"The other warlock mentioned some deal," Syndra said when Veigar started climbing another set of wooden stairs, "I thought you two were enemies."

"Politics," replied the dark mage, "he did a favor for me, so I did one for him and hoped to retain some control over this miserable end of Demacia. It didn't work out very well."

"You could've dealt with it sooner."

"I could, but I had no reason to. I didn't really need this place."

Syndra didn't know what purpose served the second level; most of it was walled off, and Veigar didn't seem keen on searching its every chamber. They simply continued upwards to the attic, which served as a master bedroom. There they found the wizard, together with his frightened bride.

"So you found her," Ronzel spat at Veigar, "your Ionian demon."

"And I made her my apprentice," Veigar affirmed. Syndra squinted. Was theirs not a chance meeting? Did the dark mage foresee her coming?

"He'll betray you too," Ronzel looked at Syndra, desperate for her help, "he throws everybody overboard once they're of no use to him."

"She'll have plenty of time to think about that while lounging around in your tower," Veigar growled, and Syndra once again grasped the coat around her shoulders to reassure herself a bit. No... She wasn't going to change sides now.

Seeing that he would score no new ally here, Ronzel dragged the terrified maid before him. He made a step back, pulling out his jeweled wand and pressing it to her throat.

"Please," the young bride pleaded with him, "I have nothing to do with this."

"I'm feeling benevolent today," Veigar lifted his staff, "so I'm giving you five more seconds to let the peasant girl go."

He began counting, and Syndra had no doubt that Veigar would not hesitate to destroy them both. It seemed that even Ronzel realized this in the end, and so he pushed the maid away.

Not that it helped him in any regard.

Veigar, clearly irritated with the other mage, immediately disintegrated his rival with dark magic. There were no parting words, no melodramatic exchange; Ronzel simply ceased to be, a life ended as unceremoniously as it began. The bride, despite having no love for her to-be husband, began sobbing; before Syndra could turn to her, she ran away, down the stairs and presumably back to her father.

Syndra thought about how it would've been were she born without magic. Maybe she too would have ended up in an arranged marriage with some shady warlock. The thought put a smile on her face; she still despised the world, but somehow it brought her a little peace that they saved another girl from a terrible fate - for now.

"Now, my dear Syndra," Veigar turned to her when he blew away Ronzel's ashes, "I grade your first lesson with an A plus, that is an excellent performance. You deserve some rest."

"I didn't do anything."

"Which can oftentimes be harder than doing too much," Veigar nodded sagely, "I'll leave this room to you for having done so well today. We'll deal with the rest tomorrow."

"Ronzel said something about a Ionian demon," Syndra called after him as he walked down the stairs, "about me."

"Tomorrow," he hollered in response. She snorted, annoyed, and turned to the grand bed placed at the far wall. She doubted she could sleep now, with so many questions she needed to ask and in a room where a man had just died. She was wrong, of course; mighty sorceress or not, her body demanded rest and as soon as she dug into the warm blankets, her mind slipped into the swallowing dark and she slept until the late morning, entirely dreamless.

 

 

There was a little chapel in Berwick, and in it a bell that rang every noon. The thundering sound woke Syndra; having never heard a village bell before, she jumped from her bed in panic, thinking something terrible had happened. She pushed all the blankets aside and dashed towards the stairs. A note was glued to the topmost post; Syndra stared at it for a second and then ran down the stairs, where she was greeted by a familiar face. Not the one she expected, but still familiar.

"My lady," the was-to-be bride stuttered and bowed to the dirty sorceress. Syndra gave the maid a puzzled look.

"What's going on? Has something happened? And what are you doing here?"

"My name is Adaline," the girl said quickly and Syndra could tell that she was nervous; perhaps even scared. "You saved me, so now I owe you."

"I see," Syndra mumbled, unsure what to do with the woman, "I heard loud noises outside. What happened?"

"I heard nothing," the maid was confused, "or do you mean the bell?"

"Bell?"

"At the chapel?" Adaline's made a few uncertain gestures. "It rings every noon. The first mayor of Berwick had it put there."

"Oh."

Syndra didn't know what more to say, and so an awkward moment of silence ensued.

"I am to help you get dressed," the maid finally broke it, "there's breakfast waiting for you."

"I don't need help." Syndra felt uncomfortable thinking of this girl - or anybody else - watching her change clothes. "Where is Veigar?"

"In the courtyard." Adaline gave the witch a desperate, pleading look. "Please, don't send me away. The warlock said that if you're unhappy with me he will deal with me like he dealt with that terrible man, Ronzel."

"Hm, alright," Syndra pushed a loose strand of white hair behind her ear, "but I don't want you to look at me when I'm not wearing anything."

Adaline nodded, clearly enthused to do anything as long as she did not have to face Veigar again. "Let's get you in a bath then, and I'll fetch you some clothes in the meatime!"

Anxious but unwilling to just send the girl to her death, Syndra let Adaline push her through the little rooms of the middle tower floor. She understood the purpose of none save for the last one, a little bathing room not too different from the one Syndra's parents had in their house before they were forced to move out. Of couse, this one was much nicer and cleaner, not having suffered a bunch of unruly children.

"There is no water," Syndra noted when Adaline stepped towards the edge of the gilded tub, "we'll... We'll have to go to the river, I guess."

"Oh, no," Adaline smiled and turned one of the strange cogs that were stuck on the tub. Around its entire perimeter, water started pouring down from the gilded frame. Syndra flinched at the strange magics.

"Every house has these thanks to our friends in Piltover," the maid explained, "have you never heard of Piltover?"

"Maybe once," Syndra grumbled.

"It's a city of engineers that come up with new, magical gadgets every day," Adaline raved with glowing eyes, "they gave us lamps that only need to be refilled with oil once every half a year, and crossbows that shoot three bolts at once, and magical locks, and..."

She went on and on, and Syndra found it hard to focus on her words. Instead she stepped towards the miraculous and tested the water with her fingers. It was hot, and after Adaline poured a bottle of strange liquid into it, also full of popping bubbles.

"I'll leave you to it," said the maid when the bathtub was full and turned the odd cog again, "I'll see if I can find anything that fits you in the tower."

Syndra watched the maid leave and as soon as the door closed after her, the witch felt as if a weight fell off her shoulders. She didn't hate the girl, but she didn't want her to dance around her either.

Though having a servant was nice.

As she shed her dirty rags and stepped into the bubbling water, Syndra remembered how her older brother would often force her to do things for him; bring him and his stupid friends drinks, carry his things around, lend him her favourite and only doll so he could destroy it. Of all the people in the world, Syndra hated her brother most, and that she'd spent centuries in her miserable prison meant she would never get her revenge against him...

Slowly sinking beneath the surface, the memories of her older brother only added to the feeling that something wasn't quite right. Her chin didn't even touch the surface yet when she felt a familiar dread creep up on her. It all felt like when she was being imprisoned, though the water was frigid and smelled of iron back then. She couldn't bear looking into the tub anymore, so she quickly scrubbed her hair and crawled out. She felt chilly and couldn't find anything to dry herself with - her rags were too dirty to serve that purpose - so she sat on the ground and simply waited. She'd been cold for so long she could stand a few more minutes of it.

When Adaline came back, Syndra was almost entirely dry - save for her silver mane. The maid was polite enough to knock and hand the witch a towel and a set of clothes without looking. The pants were too big and the shirt too long, but Syndra didn't complain. She was happy to have something.

"I couldn't find anything smaller," Adaline shouted through the door while Syndra tried fastening the trousers around her waist. The belt that came with them was too long, and she had to tie it rather than buckle it.

"It's fine."

"I can sew a little, so I can adjust it all to your size overnight."

As soon as Syndra opened the door, the maid handed her a pair of shoes - her own. Syndra threw a questioning stare at her now bare feet.

"Take them," Adaline urged her, "it's fine."

"You'll have nothing then, though."

"I'll survive with cold feet. I might not if I let you out without shoes and the master sees it."

Taking the pair of boots and sliding them on, Syndra thought about how ruthless Veigar was for such a small creature. It was a little terrifying, and a little heartwarming; he was making absolutely sure that his new apprentice got what she needed. She was never treated like this, like something precious; while she wasn't beaten and yelled at in the temple, the monk who oversaw her 'training' cared little for her. He mostly left her alone, promising punishment if she left the temple grounds. It was a solitary life, and only marginally better than the one she had with her family.

"You must be hungry," Adaline forced a smile after Syndra tied her shoes and stood up, "do you like fish? We are a fishing village, so we have a lot of those."

As they walked back through the mysterious rooms and down the tower stairs, Syndra tried to recall the taste of food. She didn't feel hungry or thirsty; Veigar didn't stop to eat or drink on their way to Ronzel's tower and Syndra didn't feel the need. She thought she had perhaps lost some of her senses while she slumbered in her prison, though this belief dissipated as soon as they stepped out in the courtyard. Her nose was hit by the smell of something delicious; fried trout and freshly baked bread.

"Good afternoon," Veigar greeted her as soon as she and Adaline stepped out of the tower. Syndra almost didn't recognize him without his oversized hat; with only his eyes glowing from beneath it, she could imagine a human face hiding down there, but now she could clearly see that wasn't the case. His head was covered by the same black fur as the rest of his body, with a pair of long ears twitching in the mild breeze. He would've looked like a cross between a little man and a particularly disheveled housecat were it not for his grouchy expression. And the bathrobe. Syndra wasn't sure where he got a bathrobe his size, but elected not to question it.

"Huh," said the witch, still staring at him. He beckoned her closer, to sit at a table he had brought outside. The festive lights and the long dining bench were gone now, leaving the courtyard looking somewhat empty.

"Everything alright?" Veigar asked when Syndra sat down across from him and shifted her stare towards the prepared food. The sorceress nodded.

"Well, eat," he encouraged her and turned to the maid, frantically begging for attention by waving her hand.

"Can I go now?" she tweeted, "my mother is ill... I will return in the evening, I promise!"

The yordle waved his hand dismissively, no longer having a need of her, and Adaline bowed.

"T-thanks, master," she stuttered and hurried across the courtyard. Syndra lost interest in the maid as soon as she began stuffing herself with the late breakfast. It was delicious.

"While you enjoy your meal, let's talk magic," Veigar said and leaned against the table. Syndra tilted her head to see out how he managed that feat from a human-sized chair, only to find out that he was sat atop three pillows. It made her smile.

"From what I understand, you were born as a mage, correct?" he continued, and Syndra nodded.

"Yef," she said with her mouth half full, "but I want to know abouf the demon thing firft. You knew I waf coming?"

"Yes and no," he explained and tented his clawed fingers, "I read some astrological charts that predicted something like this happening around this time, and then I heard that some dig in Ionia went badly because the Noxians unearthed something powerful."

"Hm." She swallowed. "You thought it was a demon?"

"No, not really. Astrocharts only ever deal with arcane matters. Not that an idiot like Ronzel would know that."

"So you were searching for me," Syndra frowned, "why? Power?"

"Knowledge," he pressed his hands together, "but I suppose it's the same thing. I never intended to take your power for myself, if that's what you're asking."

"But you could."

"I doubt it," he mused, "absorbing power isn't that easy or straightforward. It would be like trying to drink a barrel of milk in one go. I'd probably get very sick and then die."

He snorted, but she wasn't amused. "But with some preparation..."

"Not even with preparation," Veigar interrupted her, "since you're so curious, I could certainly drain your power into magical trinkets and then use them, but alas, I have not done that."

Syndra shivered. "You still could."

"If that was my intention, I certainly would not waste time cooking for you, little one."

Syndra gasped, which was obviously not the best course of action; she almost choked on a piece of bread.

"I thought it was Adaline," she wheezed when she finally managed to grasp her breath. He perked his fuzzy brows.

"I don't trust those peasants at all. They hate magefolk almost as much as the Iceborn, and I would not have you poisoned on the first day here."

"Uh, thank you." She mustered another smile. "What are the Iceborn?"

Veigar motioned towards the mountains at his back, and then beyond. "Do you know anything about the Freljord?"

"Not much."

"Well, there's two kinds of people who live there," he explained and pushed himself away from the table, "normal humans like yourself, and then the Iceborn. I can't say I'm well-versed in the topic as I've had enough sense to not wander into the Freljord, but I know that the Iceborn lead the raids and that they are immune to the cold."

"So they're mages?" Syndra asked and stuffed another large portion of salmon into her mouth. When Veigar lifted a stack of books from the ground and slid them on the table, a wave of dread washed over her shoulders.

"Excellent question," he said with a toothy smile, "and I challenge you to find the answer in these. Since the fair lady needed her long beauty sleep, she should now catch up on what happened during that time."

She wanted to ask exactly how long she had slept, but she couldn't make herself speak. Her eyes remained glued on the books while her long-time companion Shame was making herself heard in her head.

"Something wrong?" Veigar asked, "do you not like books?"

"I like practical things more," Syndra muttered. He looked into her face for a while longer, then took a step back and joined his hands behind his back.

"Practical it is," he affirmed and stepped towards the tower, where his staff rested against a wall. He picked it up and turned back to Syndra, who was once again mesmerized by his long, fluffy ears.

"We'll try some finesse training," the dark wizard began drawing circles into the air, materializing them as shimmering, floating rings, "but first, let me ask some questions. When was the first time your magic manifested?"

"I don't know," Syndra let her tense shoulders fall back and stood up. The talk of books took away her appetite. "I don't remember. I feel like it was always there."

"Well, when was the first time it got out of control?"

That she remembered well. She was forced to relive it a thousand times over, after all.

"We were in a forest," she mumbled quietly as Veigar set his magical rings in a line, "me and my brother. He was throwing dirt at me, and I got angry. The tree I was standing under got all dark."

"I see." Veigar scratched his fuzzy chin. "Did you ever work with any items? Spheres, staves, wands?"

"No."

He finished his work and then waddled back to her, patting her shoulder with the end of his stave. "You're very, very talented. Most mages learn to work without a focus at some point, but it comes naturally to you."

She wanted to feel proud at those words, but she couldn't. Would he say the same if he knew how many simple things she was awful at?

"Now, call your spheres," he instructed her, "and try to send them through the rings as if you were attacking an enemy. The leftmost one is closest to us, so start with that one."

Feeling miserable once again, Syndra's spheres came easily to her. She didn't expect much when she tried to shoot one at the first ring; it passed through, just barely missing the shimmering outline. Veigar nodded and pointed to the second circle, which Syndra missed entirely.

"You know how to send them at your enemies," the wizard noted the obvious, "but not how to control their speed, force or direction."

"Hm."

They stood there side by side, both silent and watching the glowing hoops. Syndra clawed into her arm, trying to push back her feelings of failure and inadequacy, hoping he would not ask her to try again. And he didn't. After a minute of not saying anything, the wizard motioned for her to wait and disappeared in the tower. Syndra huffed, feeling at least a little relieved.

When her mentor returned, he was wearing his usual garb: a set of dark clothes, his cloak and gauntlets and of course his oversized hat. A much larger coat hung on the top of his staff, and he had to expend much effort in order to not drag its hem on the ground.

Syndra staggered when he threw the heavy jacket at her.

"I'm not cold," she said, staring at the gilded buttons.

"You will be in the evening," Veigar replied and waved for her to follow. She walked with him out of the courtyard gate, baffled.

"Where are we going?"

"Back to the fields," the dark mage pointed over yonder, "more space. I've got a better idea than floating rings."

Syndra pulled her head between her shoulders, not keen to _suck_ at another practice. She would've brooded over the thought the entire way if it wasn't for the citizens of Berwick, bowing to the passing duo at every step. They watched the sorceress and her little companion with a mixture of uncertainty and fear, and were quick to hurry on about their ways once they've greeted their new masters. Syndra did not like the thought of being hated, though she gave up on the opposite long ago; being feared was better than nothing, and it gave her a bit of comfort.

"Why do Demacians hate mages?" she asked when they reached the wharf at the lowermost level of the town. It was the liveliest place in the entire Berwick, with the market situated right there at the harbor. A small boat was just docking in, and Syndra was reminded of her journey from Ionia to Valoran. She didn't remember much of it; after killing the soldiers that opened her prison, she just wanted to run, far away from that hellish place.

"People fear what they cannot control," Veigar grinned under his hat, "and fear breeds contempt, little one. You should know this better than anybody."

"My brother threw stones at me. I don't think he was afraid."

"He had to put you down before you realized your power. What chance would he stand against you now?" Veigar stated plainly and set off towards the end of the smallest pier, where a young man guarded his raft. Syndra was surprised to not see the same elder that brought them to Berwick, but then she realized that he was probably with his daughter, whom they so valiantly rescued. He seemed so worried. Syndra wondered if her mother and father ever cared for what happened after they gave her to the monk.

"To the other side, master wizard?" the boy asked, his face notably more cheerful than those of the people in Berwick. He winked at the witch, and Syndra shivered. She didn't like it.

"Where else?" Veigar asked as he stepped down into the dinghy. Syndra reluctantly followed.

"A smile would suit you better than that frown of yours," the ferryman chirped as soon as she sat down. It earned him a swiftly delivered staff smack from Veigar.

"Shut up and paddle," the dark wizard squeaked, "or you'll be meeting some fish soon."

Grumbling an apology, the boy was clever enough to obey. Syndra didn't hear anything from him for the rest of their journey, not even a farewell after he offloaded them on the other side. He just began paddling back, muttering something to himself.

"Youth these days," Veigar complained, adjusting his hat. Syndra tilted her head and waved at the old man on the other side of the little dock. _So he wasn't with Adaline after all._

"Demacia is so obnoxiously bright when it comes to vegetation and the general environment," Veigar kept fussing as they once again stepped into the open fields and meadows, "so much garish greenery! As much as I despise Noxus, at least they do not insist on planting tulips everywhere."

Syndra's hand idly stroked the tall grass they walked through, and she mused asking about this Noxus kingdom or empire or whatitwas. She didn't want to seem stupid in front of others, and least of all Veigar.

Before she decided, the dark wizard stopped her and walked a few steps away to put some distance between them. She wasn't sure what that was about, and when he told her to hit him with her magic, she blinked.

"Send your spheres at me," he encouraged her again, "I'll survive, don't worry."

"But I only know how to kill people with them," Syndra pleaded with him, "I don't want to kill you."

"You may be talented, but I've spent a few hundred years studying texts older than your grandparents," he postured with a smug smile, "don't overestimate yourself, hm?"

Syndra huffed and looked at her little orbs, quietly floating behind her head. She chucked one of them at Veigar; she didn't know how to control them, but she tried her hardest to make this one a little slower.

Veigar batted it away with his magic staff and yawned. It rolled through the field, wilting what it passed through.

"I thought we were practicing magic here, not throwing wet sponges," he egged her on whilst she drew her lost sphere back to her. She frowned and readied herself to try again; another sphere rolled down her shoulder and arm and whizzed at Veigar, only to bounce off a shimmering barrier he had just conjured up.

"Bo-o-oring," he hollered at her, walking left and right to further mock her efforts. Easily riled, Syndra tossed her coat aside and launched all of her dark spheres at the wizard. He had to slide his right foot back and stab his staff into the ground to not lose balance, but his shield didn't break under the force.

"Not so bad," he said and lifted one of his plated hands, "and now something from me."

He flung a small bolt of dark energy at her, and it splattered on her face like a mound of dirt. Before she could protest, he cast another, and another, until she angrily swiped her fan of spheres in front of her to prevent getting hit again.

"Why would you do that?!"

"To teach you something new," he leaned on his staff, and she realized she'd never used her powers to defend herself.

"Hm," Syndra huffed, "I wish I had that idea sooner."

"You had it now, that's what matters. Come, let's tangle a bit," he wiggled his iron fingers at her to ask for another salve, "let's see what else comes of it."

Syndra didn't want to mope about how she could have used this technique to defend herself from her brother, and so she was glad to lose herself in another fight. Her family, her cell, her misery didn't matter in those bursts and explosions of dark sorcery; it was another world, a world of only her and Veigar, who needed to expend larger and larger amounts of effort to keep her magic at bay.

And Syndra _loved_ it.

Finally she did not feel controlled or limited, but encouraged to push the boundaries of her power. She didn't care for the field around her wilting with each misfired bolt and every radiant explosion; her eyes were only set on her mentor and his face under the blue wizard hat, on the exhaustion that crept into his features as she granted him no reprieve from her assaults. To see her unbridled power wear out the only sorcerer she knew somehow validated her existence, made her _mean_ something; it confirmed that she wasn't powerless, that she no longer was the sad little girl teased by her siblings. And when her teacher hit back and forced her to step back, it didn't feel like punishment she was helpless against, it felt like a dare for her to strike back.

It was liberating. And it was there in that dying field that Syndra felt truly free for the first time in her life.

 

When they sat among the withered flowers a few hours later, Syndra felt as if the sky had been lifted off her shoulders. She knew she would feel the pain and the weight of her past again in the morning, but she didn't now and that was what mattered.

"You know, you slept through a lot of terrible things," Veigar said, watching a roach jump between his fingers. Syndra's eyes were set on the valley before them. A shining procession was marching towards the eastern horizon, armored men and women going to war to defend the borders against Noxus.

"But you didn't," the witch said, "how old are you, Veigar?"

He chuckled. "Probably older than anybody you ever knew. I don't remember exactly."

She looked at him just as he chucked the unfortunate roach into his mouth and crunched it. He seemed content, lying on the ground and leaning on his elbow, but there was an age of suffering in his eyes.

"Have you ever been to war?" she asked when she looked back at the marching soldiers. She wondered just how many wars she had missed in that prison.

"Many," he hummed, "and never of my own will. Not that it matters. The empires I helped build have ceased to exist long ago."

He watched the marching legion with her, and she could tell it brought him unpleasant memories. He bared his fangs, and his ticking right eye gave away his anger. Syndra wanted to do something to relieve the tension, but she wasn't sure what or how.

"So I wanted to ask," she finally spoke, "and this might be rude, but could I, like... Touch your ears?"

Her question immediately pulled out of his broody state. He gave her a puzzled look. "What?"

"They are so long and plushy." Syndra could feel her face turning into a ripe tomato. "Or seem so... I guess I'm just curious."

"Well, I suppose," Veigar huffed a chuckle, took off his large hat and undid the band tying the tips of his ears together. Syndra took a deep breath and slowly extended a hand towards the dark wizard. Veigar twitched, uncertain of her intentions; he remained on the edge after she gently poked his long, fox-like ears. They were velvety to the touch, and Syndra pursed her lips in a suppressed smile.

"That's awesome," she said when she dared to stroke them. Veigar frowned.

"I'm no house animal to be petted!"

She gasped a quiet apology and withdrew her hand, but he was quick to catch it and put it back where it was. Syndra tilted her head.

"Though I suppose _once_ in a time won't hurt," Veigar crossed his arms and nodded at her. The sorceress giggled, happy to fill his need for pets; his fur was pleasant to the touch, and she was glad she could give at least something back in exchange for what he'd done for her. It didn't take long until she had him curled up next to her, purring after each stroke and scratch. It was oddly adorable, this mighty dark wizard at the mercy of her comforting hands.

"I know what it's like to be imprisoned," Veigar said quietly when the Demacian soldiers were no more than little dots in the distance, "I wish I could've slept through it, Syndra. I wish I could've—"

He cut his sentence there, and the witch didn't pressure him to continue. It was obvious from his wavering voice how much power it cost him to say even that much. And while Syndra didn't know the horrors he had to face, the masters he was forced to serve and the wars he must've witnessed, she knew one thing: that were it possible, she would've taken his suffering onto herself.

 

When Syndra woke from her prison with her body unscathed and void of any physical pain, she thought herself eternally immune to little things like fatigue from too much sleep or back aches. That morning reminded her it wasn't the case; after having slept on the couch in a twisted position the entire night, she felt like a broken marionette now. She growled and rolled off the cushioned sofa, yawning and stretching her sore back. Passing out in the living room now certainly didn't seem like the best of ideas, but she was so unkeen on leaving Veigar alone the previous night. The field venture left him tired and in a sour mood, and he did seem to appreciate her company.

After opening one of the large windows to let in some fresh air, Syndra returned to duck before the couch and the sorcerer still snoozing on it. With his fur sticking out in all directions, he looked even more disheveled than usual. Syndra stifled a chuckle.

"Wuh," Veigar growled, slowly turning his head and squinting into the sunlit room, "what's the time?"

"Half past seven."

He growled, obviously unhappy with the answer, and turned on his side to doze off again. Syndra stood up and turned to the small kitchen to scour for a snack, but then she heard a gentle tapping on the door leading to the tower stairway.

She wasn't surprised to find Andaline behind it, though she was surprised to see her sniffling. At least she had another pair of shoes now.

"Lady, can you help?" the maid whispered, "I think my ma is dying."

Still drowsy, Syndra rubbed her face and stepped into the narrow corridor, quietly closing the door behind her. "What's the matter?"

"I think she is cursed. You can do magic, can you not?"

"I'm not sure—"

"You're the only witch with a heart," Adaline urged her, "at least try. Please."

Syndra looked over her shoulder, then back at Adaline. She waved at her to lead on, and the maid was quick to drag her down the stairs and out into the cold morning. Syndra wished she'd taken the coat Veigar gave her with her.

"Who cursed her?" the witch asked as they scurried through the cloudy streets of Berwick. The town was shrouded in a thick veil of mist rising from the lake, and the city was quiet save for the wharf. It was where Adaline and her family lived, and Syndra was grateful the tower was so far from it. The place smelled of fish and rust, and it was already noisy in these early hours of the day.

"Ronzel," Adaline mumbled, "she fell ill, and then he promised that if I married him, he would cure her."

Having never encountered a curse before, Syndra wasn't sure how and if she could even help. Veigar was certain to know more, but she doubted that he would be willing to help. He didn't show anything but disdain and contempt for the villagers, and Syndra could imagine him refuse to even step inside the desolate house that was Adaline's home.

As soon as she was let in, Syndra noticed just how similar it was to the shack where she spent most of her childhood. The flaked walls and old wooden furtniture brought back unpleasant memories, as did the smell the cottage was filled with. Aside from the nauseating aroma of the docks, the house reeked of sweat and spit, like any small abode inhabited by somebody sick for too long. And Adaline's mother certainly was sick; the old matron lie in a creaking bed, hidden under quilted layers. She was coughing and wheezing, her skin pale as snow.

"Ma, I bring help," Adaline cried and hurried to her mother's bed. The old woman slowly turned her head; it took her a while to notice Syndra standing nearby.

"Who is this?" she rasped. Syndra covered her mouth and nose to give herself a little reprieve from the stench and stepped closer.

"She's a witch," Adaline quickly explained, "but she is good, ma! She's not like the others."

"Stupid girl," the crone panted and coughed, "they're all the same."

Ignoring her mother's words, Adaline gave Syndra a pleading look. The sorceress didn't know what to do; she knew no tricks that would let her sense witchcraft or dispel curses. Nothing seemed magical about the ill old woman.

"Are you sure she's not just sick?" Syndra asked. Adaline shook her head.

"I don't know, but I think there is dark magic at play. Ronzel thought our family dangerous, so he cursed pa and did this to ma."

Syndra squinted. Was the curse why the ferryman couldn't return home? And why would Ronzel find a common family of poor peasant dangerous? Adaline's father was a frail old man, her mother withered and the maid herself didn't seem the brightest or the strongest. Was Ronzel mad? Was _Veigar_ mad? And was that her fate as well?

"I'm sorry, Adaline," she said after a while of musing her options, "I... Can't really do anything."

"But you can do magic!" lamented Adaline, "just try _something!"_

"That's not how it works. I..." Syndra bit her cheek. "I could ask Veigar for help."

"But he won't," Adaline spat, bitter, "he's as bad as Ronzel."

"That's not true." Syndra frowned. "You just don't understand."

"He killed Rona's husband in such a terrible way that Fredic now won't say more than two words!" Adaline shouted; Syndra realized she must've been talking about the poor gate guards. "He would've killed me too if Ronzel hadn't pushed me away, and he would murder you if you weren't a witch."

Syndra was silent. She couldn't disprove any of it.

"He ain't even human," the maid muttered, "he's one of them cursed spirits. There's a reason the king doesn't let them just wander about..."

Syndra bit her cheek, then turned on her heel and simply... Left. Adaline's words made her anxious, and she had to remind herself that she didn't want to be _good,_ she wanted revenge against the world for what it had done to her. It was true that Veigar would probably treat her worse than trash were she not a mage, but what did it matter? She _was_ one, and nobody was ever taking that from her.

The streets were already filling when she began her journey back up to the tower, and the glares of the townspeople made her uncomfortable. She folded her arms and pulled her head between her shoulders, wishing she wasn't alone. They didn't bow to her now that she didn't have Veigar by her side; they pointed at her white hair and Ionian face and whispered to each other. She felt like a freak, and every stare made her walk a little faster. She was running by the time she reached the tower, and slamming the door shut behind her felt like shaking a set of heavy chains.

Veigar was still sleeping when she found him in the tower lounge, though he didn't seem as peaceful anymore. He rolled onto his back and was frantically mumbling something about an immortal fortress. When Adaline leaned down to him and gently tapped his shoulder, he twitched and almost fell off the sofa.

"Syndra," he huffed and glanced around the room, still panicked. It took him a moment to realize that whatever he had just seen was just a dream.

"Did I wake you at the wrong time?"

"Quite the opposite," he growled, sat up and rubbed his fuzzy face. The fur under his eyes was slightly darker than the rest, lending him a perpetually tired look. It was particularly striking now. "Blasted nightmares! I may as well stop sleeping altogether."

She knelt on the wooden floor, resting her chin on the couch. She didn't let her eyes off him.

"Why do I have the feeling you want something?" Veigar asked and pushed himself off the sofa. He landed with a quiet thud, seemingly suffering no ails like Syndra, and started looking for something. The witch watched him saunter about, suppressing the need to squeeze him and bury her face in his black fur.

"I want you to teach me some healing spells," she said when he grabbed his staff and returned to her. She remained on the ground, and now that he was standing next to her, she actually had to look a little up. It was a little odd and a little endearing.

"Are you injured?"

"No, but Adaline's mother is sick and she was begging me for help."

Veigar sighed. "You realize they wouldn't do the same for you?"

"How do you know that?"

"Because I've been there." He looked out of the window, somewhere beyond the horizon. "But it's a mistake I keep making, so I suppose I can't chide you for it. I don't know any healing spells, but I'm sure you can find some potion recipes up in Ronzel's study."

"I can't use those," she finally said when he left her to sift through the pile of letters on the low table before them.

"Hm?"

"I can't really... Read." She bit her lip so hard it bled at the confession, and every second of Veigar staring at her afterwards only made it worse.

"I see," he said and returned to digging through the documents, "well, I've no time to teach you anything now, but I'll take some book with me to High Silvermere. We'll see if there's any time to learn on the way there."

"We're leaving?" Syndra asked, immensely relieved that he did not mock or question her. "When?"

"After you're done with your errand," he murmured, "have you any knowledge of herbalism?"

"I know some plants that grow in Ionia..."

"Do you know what a crimson dazzler looks like?"

She quickly nodded. _She knew something!_

"Boil a cup of milk if there's any, then throw in twelve dazzler leaves," Veigar said idly, finally fishing out the letter he was looking for from the pile, "and any root that is vaguely purple. You'll find everything in the alchemium upstairs."

"Thank you," she chittered, jumped to her feet and dashed towards the stairs. There she turned around and ran back, only to duck next to Veigar, pull the confused mage closer and press a brief kiss onto his fuzzy cheek.

"Wh—" was all he mustered as he watched her run off again, his ears sticking up so sharply it was as if they were covered in glue. Unfortunately, Synda didn't stop and look; that feat cost her so much power she didn't want to spend any more time thinking about it.

 


	2. Old Acquaintances

_One. Two. Three. Drop by drop the miraculous liquid poured into the old woman's throat, and with each drip swallowed she grew a year younger, less sick, more beautiful. And when the elixir bottle was empty, the cured woman jumped up from her bed, full of power and vitality, younger than her daughter and no longer grieving for her old husband!_

_"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" the crone-made-maiden cheered for the sorceress, and suddenly a procession of laughing people burst into the hut, tore it down with the windows and the roof and lifted the witch towards the sky. Touched by thousands of strange hands, the sorceress struggled and shivered, wishing only to be standing with her feet on the ground again, but the thousand-headed human snake would not let her. No, not yet - they carried her through the entire golden city and towards an ugly house that stood in its middle, so lonely and unfitting. There they threw the witch on the ground, and from the cottage emerged a woman she once called her mother. She carried a plate and on it a severed head; her brother's._

_"Welcome home," the mother said with a sickly sweet smile, but the witch pushed her away._

_"Isn't this what you always wanted?"_

_Feared. Loved. Celebrated. Mighty. Welcomed. Great. Gold. Family. Mother. Brother. Death._

_Veigar, where are you?_

A bump in the road woke Syndra up. She looked around only to find herself in a little moving room, a cushioned parlor that barely had enough space for her and Veigar. Recent memories started coming back to her slowly, of how they walked from Berwick to Uwendale, the closest place they could hire a carriage to High Silvermere from. Having never traveled like this, it was a strange feeling, almost nauseating.

"Had a good nap?" the dark wizard asked; he was sitting across her, reading a thin book with a picture of a strange tree on its cover. Syndra canted her head.

"Not really." She felt a little more rested, but the dream left her with some awful echoes. "What are you reading?"

He patted his cushioned seat. Syndra shifted over to his side and looked at the colorful pages. She didn't imagine Veigar to be reading something with so many pictures.

"It's the _Little Legends of Bandle City,_ " he smiled, squinting at the cover, "I understand it's something Demacians like to read to their children. It's full of hilarious misconceptions."

"The Bandle City?"

"Why, it's where I come from!" Veigar grinned. "Or did you think yordles just jumped out of the ground?"

"Are you telling me you _aren't_ a housecat somebody taught too much magic?" Syndra smiled mischievously. Veigar seemed miffed for a moment, but he was quick to forgive her.

"The humans have been trying to reach Bandle City for ages now," the dark wizard explained, "unsuccessfully, of course. It is hard even for us to back."

"Why is that?"

"Short answer: magic," he mused, "long answer: Bandle City can only be accessed through portals that appear at specific places at specific times and can only be opened by doing and saying the right things."

Syndra scratched her cheek. "That sounds... Complicated."

"Perhaps that is why humans make up so many legends about it. Like this one," Veigar opened the book on a page with a drawing of a very large mushroom, "this story claims that there is a gateway underneath each overgrown fungus."

He showed her how _Bandle_ was spelt, and it made her curious for more. She remembered all the mysterious and mystical books in the temple she was imprisoned in, those dusty tomes that always made her wonder about their contents. She suspected their secrets were why her old master was not keen to teach her how to read them. Veigar said that knowledge was power, and before him, nobody wanted her to grow more powerful.

After expending much physical effort and some tactical positioning, Syndra managed to rest her chin on the yordle's shoulder, looking at the beautifully illustrated pages from there. He stiffened, stumbling over his words as he spoke, though he was quick to relax with her; when he leaned back and ran his hand through her silver mane, she once again felt her painful memories growing distant. They were not important, and neither was her nightmare; all that mattered were the _Little Legends of Bandle City._

  


The sorceress had seen a few cities as she wandered westward from the shores of Valoran, but none were quite like High Silvermere. When she looked out of the carriage window and saw the bastion standing in the middle of a waterfall, she thought that spirits must have had built it; it looked so mystical, every house and arch made of white stone, with a massive statue of a warrior warding the city from the fall. It seemed to serve as a dam on the wide river it stood upon, and the only way of getting to the stronghold itself was to cross one of two marble bridges that connected High Silvermere with the riverbanks.

Syndra was disappointed when the coach didn't take them all the way across the river, but instead swerved towards a nearby rocky peak. A lavish villa sat atop it, and Syndra didn't believe it to be their destination until she watched the gilded gate of its sprawling gardens open.

"Where are we going?" she asked, gravel cracking underneath the wheels. Veigar put on his ridiculous hat and tied his blue cloak.

"House Dupont," the dark wizard pulled his cap deeper into his eyes, "they're... Old acquaintances."

"I've no idea how to talk to nobles."

"And that is why you will let me do the talking."

Somebody was laughing outside, and when Syndra looked through the small window again she could see two young fencers, man and woman, who had just concluded their duel and rushed to see their new visitors.

The witch swallowed.

When the carriage finally stopped, Veigar had enough decency to at least step out first and face their hosts in the gardens. Syndra took a deep breath and then followed, once again feeling like a beggar compared to the young duelists and the guards present at the mansion terrace; shiny and dressed from head to toe in house embroidery, they put poor Syndra's oversized tunic and pants to shame.

"What the heckity HECK," the man yelled before Veigar could even greet him, "you're so small."

"Rude," the woman next to him smacked his chest with the flat side of her rapier. It also stopped him from simply picking the diminutive wizard up, or perhaps saved him from being blasted into the mansion facade.

Syndra noticed now just how similar the two were. Both had short, dark brown hair, green eyes and round faces; they were most definitely related.

"Where is your father?" Veigar asked them, confirming Syndra's theory, "I want to speak to Lautrec."

"Why, that is no way to greet the children of a _noble_ family," the girl chided him; her brother snuck around Veigar in the meantime and began eyeing Syndra curiously. She leaned back, and then again when he began kissing her hand. Veigar dealt with him just as he did with the young ferryman; he smacked him with his staff.

"Ow."

"You're brave to lay a hand on the brother of Vera Dupont," the girl yelped and brandished her rapier at the unimpressed yordle, "en garde!"

Syndra craved nothing more than to just turn around and crawl back into the carriage, but that one was already on its way back to the entry gate. Veigar was clearly not in the mood for games either, as he simply slapped the girl's needle away and beckoned Syndra to follow him to the terrace. Alas, the scorned Vera Dupont jumped into his way again.

"I challenge you, villain!"

"Awesome," her brother cheered at her efforts, and Veigar was about to accept this challenge when an elder but sprighly man showed up at the terrace, followed by a scribe of the house.

"Veigar," he frowned at the little wizard, and Vera and her brother quickly rushed to his side, forgetting about the thrown glove. "What are you doing here? I thought you were dead."

"Just wishful thinking, I'm afraid," Veigar looked at his gauntlet, "I happened to take over Ronzel's tower recently and I found about a deal you two made. Since Ronzel is not available anymore, I come to offer my services in his stead."

"That is... Good," Lautrec Dupont stepped down the marble terrace stairs, "but what of the thing with Malcolm?"

"It's been twenty years. I don't want to dwell on it anymore, I suppose."

"Who's Malcolm?" Vera asked, and Syndra was grateful for the girl's chattiness. She was also curious.

"That's none of your business," Lautrec let them both down, "this is all a little suspicious, but I cannot afford to turn you away, not now. Who is the girl?"

"My apprentice," Veigar said without a hint of emotion; Lautrec raised a brow; after a moment of uneasy silence, he beckoned them inside.

"Let's talk this deal in the greenhouse, then. What happened to Ronzel?"

"Dead."

The old patriarch was wise enough to not ask about the details, and Veigar himself did not seem keen on initiating another conversation. As they stepped towards the entrance, Syndra was careful not to stain any of the marble with her shoes, even though it was made for walking; it was just too _precious_. And the inside - the inside just took her breath away. Everything was made of white stone and birchwood, with glass carvings lining the tall walls; the cracks in the stone were filled with gold leaf, painting abstract shapes that finished the opulent image the mansion was trying to paint. Syndra had to remind herself that she was a _great sorceress_ now; looking at all the expensive things, she felt so insignifact and out of place.

After noting down the initial conversation, the house scribe left them to do her duties. Syndra was left with her silent mentor, their host and the two siblings who kept whispering something to each other and chuckling. They seemed about her age - before she was imprisoned, of course - yet they were so careless and lively, not boggled down by a troubled past. In a way, Syndra was jealous of them; even if the world came at them, at least they had each other. If only her brother had been anything like Vera's.

"This is an excellent year for begonias, I must say," Lautrec finally spoke again when they entered the fantastic greenhouse, a room made entirely out of glass and full of beautiful trees and blossoming bushes. Syndra gasped; Veigar snorted derisively.

"Red begonias can sense blood," the wizard noted, "of course they thrive now."

"Must you ruin everything?"

"That's cool, though," Vera was much more enthusiastic about the fact than her father, "what other plants are like that?"

"Like what?"

_"Badass."_

"All plants are, in their own respect," Veigar grinned as Lautrec had them seated around a painted glass table, "there was a castle in Valoran that was cursed by a mighty witch and overgrown with deadly roses."

"Sweet."

"Don't listen to him," Lautrec waved at one of the servants tending to his precious trees, "Veigar, please stop telling my children these things or they'll get an interest in the dark arts and then where I'll be?"

"Dark arts?" Vera's brother peeked at Veigar while his father spoke to the servant, "are you a mage?"

"No way, that's outlawed."

"Exactly," Veigar leaned against the backrest of his cushioned chair, snapped his fingers and summoned a tiny dark globe, "and I tremble before the long arm of the law."

The siblings lost their minds at the display. They immediately wanted to see and know more, all while their father rubbed his face with an expression of total defeat. Syndra couldn't help but smile.

"So tell me," Lautrec spoke again when his children finally stopped yelling over each other, "since when are you taking on apprentices? And what is her name? She's very quiet."

"I'm Syndra," Syndra coughed and bowed her head, "I'm sorry, I never met any nobles before. I don't know what to say or do."

"Awww," the twins' intense attention turned to her now, "she's adorable!"

"I'm Vera," Vera introduced herself and then presented her brother, "and this is Lautrec junior, or Luke."

"Enchanted," Luke stood up and bowed to her, and Syndra once again felt overwhelmingly awkward.

"You're making her blush, you clown."

"I've never known Veigar to take on apprentices," old Lautrec extended a hand to her, and she shook it tentatively, "you must be very special, young lady."

The blush got worse. Syndra just wanted to hide under the couch she was sitting on.

"She's also the main reason why I'm willing to forget the whole Malcolm thing," Veigar admitted, "we need to get something in High Silvermere and I'd rather if we didn't have to stay in the city. Surely you understand why."

"Monster hunters," Vera waved her fingers in a spooky gesture, "no worries, we will protect your honor here."

"You seem very accepting of us," Syndra spoke up, "I thought Demacians hated mages."

"Oh, they do," Lautrec agreed, "but the monster hunters are even worse, and after they took my wife and brother from me, I'd rather consort with wizards than them."

The twins exchanged important looks. Syndra squinted.

"The letter you sent to Ronzel mentioned Luke being at risk as well," Veigar said. The boy glanced at his father.

"What about me?"

"It's not so much monster hunters but the war," Lautrec explained, "I don't want my children drafted away into the army."

"What?!" Luke jumped up from his seat again, "I want to protect the country!"

"You can protect it just fine from here!" Lautrec barked, "without dying in some border skirmish!"

"That's pretty cowardly," Vera noted, "if the king needs us, we should go."

"I've seen wars," Veigar said coldly, his stare lost somewhere beyond the company, "they're not how you imagine them. You will die, one way or another."

"Creepy," Luke whispered after a moment of silence, and Syndra pushed herself closer to her mentor. He didn't seem in need of help, but she didn't like the melancholic lustre in his eyes.

"Either way it's not up for debate," Lautrec finally decided, "what can you do?"

"I can curse your son to appear sickly for when the conscriptors come to your door," Veigar emerged from his malaise, "not even the best medic can see through a spell like that, not if it is cast by me."

"Ugh, I don't want to be sick."

"Better sick than dead," Lautrec growled, "this is agreeable. And payment?"

"Six thousand gold and you allow us to stay at your mansion."

"That is a lot of money."

"Very little for one human life," Veigar hissed, "would you pay it if it could return Malcolm to us?"

"I would." Lautrec paused. "Deal, then."

A servant brought them drinks, and it was for the first time that Syndra got to taste coffee. It was hot and bitter, but she found herself enjoying it in a self-flagellating kind of way. Whilst slowly sipping away and listening in to the ongoing conversations between Veigar and Lautrec's family, she warmed to the nobles a little; they didn't seem as intimidating anymore, at least when they weren't talking to her directly. Her eyes were still mostly set on Veigar, though; the little wizard handled each question about magic flung at him with bravado and displays of fantastic sorcery, and the Duponts adored it. He seemed confident and relaxed when he could do magic, and only then; a sentiment Syndra could relate to. She wished they could just do magic together until the end of time, alone and undisturbed.

"I think you've pestered the wizard enough for a day," Lautrec finished his coffe and finally put a stop to his children's begging for more tricks, "why don't you two show Syndra the gardens while me and Veigar talk some serious matters?"

Syndra threw a desperate glance in Veigar's direction. She was quite certain they were going to eat her, or just talk so much that she would melt into a puddle.

"I'll allow it," Veigar nodded at her, "but only if your demons swear to treat her well, else they'd better start fearing me rather than the draft."

"On our honor," the twins blurted out in unison and before Syndra could protest, she was dragged away from table and her dear mentor, left vulnerable to the two Dupont sharks.

  


"So you're a mage too, huh?" Vera questioned the witch as soon as she was pushed out into the gardens. The sun was setting already; the journey here took them the entire day, and Syndra was once again getting chilly. She folded her arms but did not want to complain, not to these two.

"Well, yes. But I won't show you tricks like Veigar."

"What is he like? That must be weird, being tutored by a yordle."

"Not really," Syndra said coldly, though she warmed up again at the sight of the flower patterns that opened before them in the backyard. The Dupont gardeners - and presumably also Lautrec - had created beautiful patterns out of colorful petals. Syndra didn't even recognize most of them, but she could appreciate the craft nevertheless.

"So what do you two get up to?" Vera pushed another curious question when she saw Syndra would give no more answers to the previous, "is it true that all magic requires blood sacrifice? Do you kill people?"

"No," Syndra was wise enough not to give away her and Veigar's secrets so easily, "I... Healed somebody, I think. Saved her from certain death."

"Bah," Vera waved her off, clearly not interested in anything that did not involve blood. Her brother, soon to face a curse of sickness, was of a different disposition.

"How did you do it? Can you teach me that spell?" he asked, and Syndra shrugged.

"I made a potion that stopped her coughing, and I think it was enough."

"Well, can you teach me to brew it?"

Syndra wasn't keen on teaching the boy anything, and especially something that could mess with Veigar's magic. "I don't think so. I'd need to ask Veigar."

"Oh, come on," Luke kept begging, "he doesn't have to know."

"Leave her alone," Vera huffed and pulled him away from Syndra, "we have more interesting things to worry about, like who Malcolm is."

"I'm pretty sure I know who Malcolm is," Luke grumbled, "the gray uncle."

"The gray uncle?" Syndra tilted her head.

"We know dad had a brother," the boy explained, "something happened to him when we were little, and since then he's just been called the gray uncle. His name has been entirely erased from family records."

"Oooh, mystery," Vera stopped on the grovel road, climbing the edge of the fountain before them, "maybe it was like with the Laurents!"

"The Laurents?" Syndra was just hopelessly lost.

"You don't know Fiora Laurent?" Vera gasped, "she's the greatest fencer in all of Demacia! Her father shamed her house and she dueled him so the family would not have to go into exile."

"What could've Malcolm done, though?" Luke mused, "maybe he murdered somebody?"

"Dad said the monster hunters took him," Vera sat down on the stone basin, "so it must have been something with monsters or magic."

"Veigar would know," the twins once again turned to Syndra, "you could find out for us!"

"Uhm," the sorceress pulled her head between her shoulders, "does it really matter, though? I mean, he's dead."

"Wouldn't you care about the history of your family?" Vera cried, "this is important! Me and Luke could avenge him!"

"Yeah," Luke supported his sister, "challenge his killer to an honorable duel and clear his name."

Syndra's lips curled into a bitter smile. No, she did not care about her family or its history; the more distant and forgotten they were, the better. Still she found the enthusiasm of the twins infectious, and if they managed to avenge this Malcolm, then perhaps Veigar would be happier as well.

"I'll try," she said in the end, much to the joy of the twins, "but no promises."

"Sweet," Vera clapped, "and in return, we can teach you more about lady Laurent!"

"Through the sword," Luke drew his rapier, dramatically cutting into the nearby brushes, "on your guard, sister - let's show the witch how we fight here in Demacia!"

Vera was quick to accept the challenge, and Syndra gladly took her spot on the fountain. She was relieved to be a mere spectator for a while; she had her thoughts to entertain her. They ultimately spiraled towards Veigar as Syndra wondered what his connection to the Dupont family was, and why he cared for the death of the man called Malcolm. She couldn't imagine Veigar befriending anybody easily, least of all in a country that hated mages. Even if Malcolm was a sorcerer, she saw what her teacher did to Ronzel.

There was a deeper meaning behind it all, and knowing Veigar, Syndra suspected this secret to be as dark and bloody as the warlock himself. And that only made her more curious...

  


There was a little music box playing in the large chamber, over and over. The yordle mage sitting next to it kept setting it back to the start of the melody, listening to the repeating prelude. Every loop made his eyelids a little heavier, and when his apprentice finally came to him, his eyes were closed. Still the music played; as much as the sound hurt his ears and memory, he was terrified of silence.

"These rooms are bigger than the entire tower," Syndra noted and closed the massive carved door behind her. Veigar didn't turn to her until she sat on the canopy bed next to him.

"I know what you're going to ask," he said and finally looked at her, "so I'll spare us some time. Malcolm Dupont was a sorcerer who tried to start a revolution in Demacia. He wanted mages to rise up against the oppressive policies of king Jarvan."

"And somehow, you cared," Syndra gently stroked his twitching ear, "but why? Doesn't less mages mean less competition?"

"I don't know," his voice grew weaker, "they lock them in little cells, and it was too much like... Like—"

He didn't finish. Instead he shook his head.

"Lautrec could either face exile together with his family, or forsake his brother's name," he started anew after a while, "he chose the lives of his little twins back then, and it was hard to forgive."

"You think it's your fault."

"I don't," Veigar let go of the music box and pushed herself off the cushions, joining his hands behind his back, "it just soldified me in my belief that somebody needs to seize this world and change the way things are done."

"I want to help you."

He threw a weary smile over his shoulder. "The Veras and Lukes and Andalines will stand against in you in that pursuit."

"But you'll be right beside me, so that kind of evens it out," Syndra said, proud of how she managed to word her response. It was further validated by Veigar's ears sticking up straight and twitching. Syndra thought that perhaps this was the reason why he wore his ridiculous hat so often; he was so easy to read without it.

"You get some rest in you, charmer," he finally mustered a response and began waddling towards the door, "you'll need the energy tomorrow."

"Oh?"

"You didn't think we went all the way here just for the Duponts, did you?" he winked slyly at her and, without giving away any more, slipped out of the majestic door. Syndra huffed and fell back into the ridiculously plush bed. She could get used to being wealthy...

  


The vehemency with which the twins refused any guards and protection was charming in a child-like, naïve way; they were so certain that they could stand against the world together, and as Syndra walked behind them through the little villages surrounding the Silvermere river, she once again felt a sting of jealousy. How was it fair that she was born to a poor mother that hated her, and Vera and Luke were given everything they wanted ever since their birth?

"Dark thoughts?" Veigar asked when the twins rushed ahead, laughing as they chased each other in the narrow streets. Syndra sighed.

"I just wish I was born as somebody else at times."

"We wouldn't have met then, little one."

She looked down at him, and the sight of her master helped her push the nagging thoughts to the back of her head. Despite yordles not being openly welcomed in Demacia, Veigar refused to wear a disguise or conceal himself with his sorcery; he insisted that were they to happen upon a monster hunter, a magical guise would just get them in trouble. Instead he left his staff and cloak behind, walking beside Syndra in just his black garments that covered him from neck to toe. We was like a little shadow, save for a few greying hairs behind his ears.

"You're like a black dot in this sea of white," Syndra noted on the fact when they finally stepped upon one of the majestic bridges leading to High Silvermere, "I thought you wanted to, well, not be noticed."

"I doubt anybody's going to be looking at me after we get you to a tailor," he said, canting his head, "you're already turning heads."

Syndra glanced around herself. It was true, but the looks she was getting weren't of the _good_ kind. "That's just because I'm weird. I have a weird face."

"You have a Ionian face, and there's nothing wrong with it." Veigar hummed and snapped his claws at Luke. The young man snorted a laugh and knelt down to let the yordle climb on his shoulders. People were less likely to stumble over him that way.

"At last, the world belongs to me!" Veigar rubbed his hands, earning himself a mock bow from Vera. With Luke now employed as a mount, it was up to his sister to lead their little group, and she was happy to tell them all about High Silvermere and its heroes, Garen and Luxanna Crownguard. Syndra found it hard to focus on her words; instead her mind soared around the highest peaks of the towering city, and she imagined standing at the very top of it, among the clouds and the whistling winds. Was that what flying felt like?

Her mind returned back to the ground when they passed through the marble gate leading to the lowest level of the city. The streets within were cast in shadow, narrow and lined by little white buildings carved directly into the Silvermere rock mountain. The yordle on Luke's shoulders drew a few odd looks, but most of the citizens were too busy to look twice and the patrolling soldiers were wise enough not to accost a noble's entourage. Both Luke and Vera made sure to display their family colors clearly, changing their leather doublets for more formal clothes; both wore a cape with the Dupont insignia, a lily pierced by a sleek dagger. Veigar said it symbolized vigilance; Syndra only saw a stabbed plant, a crude crest given meaning by somebody who refused to speak plainly.

The relative peace at which they walked up through the city didn't last long. As soon as they made it a little higher, they were immediately begged and yelled at and harassed by the many traders of High Silvermere. Luke, Vera and Veigar seemed to be fully capable of filtering that noise out; Syndra, who was never to a city this large before, struggled. She turned after every slur thrown at her only to find that whoever said that was already gone; perhaps it was never aimed at her in the first place. The traveling Ionian merchants that offered her trinkets to remind her of her old homeland only made her recall and linger on her unpleasant past, and every person bumping into her - deliberately or not - sent a shiver down her spine. Everything was so loud, so crowded, so overwhelming; the initial beauty of the high city was gone now, replaced by a feverish anxiety that beckoned Syndra to turn around and run at every step. Yet she was forced to press on, her unease gaining a violent aspect when she began wishing all those people around her would just _die._

She was about to explode and scream her lungs out when they finally stepped inside a building that gave them respite from the bustling streets. Syndra took a deep breath and tried to soothe the turmoil within her mind, but her distress lingered, especially when she remembered they were going to be meeting that very crowd again on their way back.

"You look like you just bit into a lemon," Vera commented on Syndra's sour grimace, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing," the witch hissed and scoured the room with her eyes. It was small; their little group took up all space within it. Paintings of the mountains surrounding Silvermere hung on the walls, but the little room was otherwise void of any furtniture. Syndra was uncertain of its purpose before the young lady Dupont opened the door on the other side of it, leading them into a cozy shoppe. A bell rang above their heads as they walked in, and soon after they were greeted by a smiling woman in a many-pocketed apron.

"If it isn't the dashing Duponts," she said and shook hands with Vera. Luke set Veigar back on the ground in the meantime, and the maid turned to him right after.

"And a yordle friend. Haven't seen many of your kind around here lately. Haven't we met before? You seem familiar."

"Hardly," Veigar scoffed, "I've never been to Demacia before."

"Right," Luke affirmed the lie, "Evonna, this is an old family friend, a traveling trader by the name of Berk. Berk, this is Evonna Langley. She used to work exclusively for the Duponts, but look at her now!"

"Change of mind?" Veigar asked, feigning interest. Syndra left them to their little lies and small talk and went to inspect the nearby stands. Unfinished ballgowns were pinned onto them, one more beautiful than the next. She was so fascinated that she entirely missed Vera calling her; the young lady had to go and fetch her.

" _Misha,_ don't you hear us calling you?" she asked, stressing Syndra's fake name. The witch blinked, having entirely forgotten about their little ploy to keep the witch and her master safe.

"Sorry," the witch chirped, "these are beautiful."

"Thank you, dear," Evonna curtsied to her, "so this is the one we'll be dressing, then?"

"Yes," Vera squeezed Syndra's shoulders, "poor thing lost her family and everything with it in a house fire."

"That is horrendous. Did you take her in?"

"Her father was one of Lautrec's gardeners. You know we look after our own."

"Of course." Evonna smiled. "That is the Dupont way. Give me a moment, i'll fetch a measuring tape."

The tailor disappeared somewhere in the back of the shoppe, and Vera finally stopped squeezing the witch. Veigar seated himself in a cushioned armchair nearby, leaning back and closing his eyes. He seemed relaxed, much more than the nervous sorceress.

"So when she comes back," Syndra broke the silence, "she'll measure me and then she'll just... Sew a dress, or something? And we wait while she does it?"

"Oh, no," Vera leaned against the armrest of Veigar's chair, "that would take ages. When you look around, you can see she's offering a lot of finished or near-finished things. That's the way they do it in big cities these days."

"Hm." Syndra bit her cheek. "And you're all going to be staring at me whilst I change?"

"Maybe," Vera smiled and skipped towards a nearby cluster of hat stands, "or perhaps I will get something for myself, too!"

She picked a wide skimmer with flowers on it and threw it to Luke. The young lord placed it on Veigar's head.

"Heck yes," the dark wizard called out, "fear me, for I am fabulous."

The twins started giggling, and after a moment of stifling her laughter, Syndra joined them. The sight was quite something.

"I see that Berk has an interest in fashion as well," Evonna noted when she returned, "a good pick, if I may say."

"Of course. They don't call me Berk the Beautiful for nothing," Veigar affirmed. Syndra snorted another chuckle.

"You've a very thin waist," the seamstress turned to the giggling witch and unfolded her measuring tape. "Is that a Ionian thing or are you just not eating enough?"

"A bit of both, I suppose," Syndra coughed. Evonna shook her head and forced the sorceress to lift her arms so she could find her size.

"I can imagine you lost your appetite after the tragedy, but you must eat properly. Your parents would have wanted it."

"I doubt that," Syndra slipped; after Evonna gave her a questioning look, she quickly added: "My mother always said I needed to stay thin to get a husband."

"What a foolish notion. That's not true at all, at least in Demacia."

Syndra didn't know what more to say, and so she said nothing. She looked at Veigar to see how he felt about the entire ordeal, but the yordle seemed to be dozing off in his chair.

"I've nothing that would fit you here, but that's no issue. I've some things that come close and I can do quick changes to those if you end up liking any," Evonna rolled up her tape again, "what are you looking for?"

"Something sparkly!" Vera jumped in with her suggestion before Syndra could answer, "do you remember the gown you made for my first spring ball?"

"Isn't that a bit too much?" Evonna huffed. "The girl is not going to a ball, is she?"

"No, most definitely not," Syndra glared at Vera, "I need something I can move around in."

"Make it black and blue," Veigar called from his seat and flashed a mischievous smile. Syndra was surprised to see he wasn't sleeping, and then again when she realized those were the only colors he ever wore. Did he want his student to _match?_

"What even is the occassion?" Evonna asked when she began searching through the hangers and stands and boxes in the shoppe. Veigar purred, once again making himself comfortable.

"She's my apprentice, of course," he answered, "the Duponts have permitted me to teach her the art of trade. We will be leaving for Shurima in a few days."

"Ah, so something she can travel in." The seamstress pulled a robe from one of the hangers, then a short dress, then a pair of embroidered pants; the pile she was holding was steadily growing as she jumped from one end of the shoppe to another. When she was done with her gathering, she beckoned Syndra to a nearby table so she could lie the options out for her to choose from.

"You see, these two are very beautiful," Evonna showed her two long, azure robes first, "soft to the touch and sparkling as lady Dupont requested, but silk and velvet are not good for travel. Velvet is too heavy, and silk just has the tendency to tear a lot."

Syndra nodded and tried imagining herself in a gown like that. At a ball, dancing with a mysterious stranger... Or better, her teacher. But how would that work, with him only reaching up to her waist?

"I'd recommend cotton or wool," the tailor continued and moved onto the more practical sets. Syndra's eyes stopped on an asymmetrical short dress with gilded beads sewn onto it. She'd never worn anything like it, and it made her curious.

"How about this?" she asked, pointing at her find.

"I thought you'd like this one," Evonna lifted the dress to show its full length, "I made something like it for Luxanna once and she loved it. It is made of cotton, so it's not too tight or oppressive."

"I'm not sure if it's good for travel, though."

"Not alone, no," Evonna nodded towards the table, "but it is short enough so you can treat it as a tunic and wear a pair of pants underneath. And if you need an attire for a formal occassion - just take off the trousers, and you've got a stylish dress!"

"That sounds great," Syndra nodded; she knew nothing about fashion but she liked how versatile the little gown was. "So if I pick that, what next?"

"Next we get it on you and then I will put in pins to see where to shorten or tighten it," the seamstress explained, "the gentlemen and lady Dupont will excuse us."

Syndra wasn't keen on leaving her guardians and even less keen on having to change in front of a woman she barely knew. There was no turning back now, however; the witch was pushed to the back of the shop, behind a thick curtain, and handed what she had picked. She was glad to get rid of Ronzel's clothes at least, and Evonna was courteous enough to turn around while she was changing. She didn't stay that way for long; Syndra needed her help adjusting everything. She wasn't even sure she put it on the right way.

"You're very lucky to have the Duponts take care of you like this," the seamstress muttered when everything finally was in place and she could start pushing little pins into the back of the dress, "not all families in Demacia are that kind."

"Are the nobles cruel?"

"That is often the case, yes," Evonna admitted, lowering her voice as she worked, "the king used to make sure that didn't happen, but with the war going on, his eyes can't be everywhere."

"Ve—Berk told me Demacians hated mages," Syndra turned her head to look at the tailor behind her, "wouldn't they help you end the war quicker?"

"And then what?" Evonna narrowed her eyes. "Those cursed folks would kill the king and take over the country."

"How do you know that?"

"It's just how magic is. It twists the mind, makes one evil." The seamstress shook her head. "And you'd do well to stay away from it. Go with your master to Shurima and learn his trade. Good men and women make their livelihoods with honest crafts."

Syndra swallowed a couple of bitter remarks and elected to say no more on the topic. The words of the tailor irritated her; she was hit by a wave of strange sorrows when she realized she could not disprove them. Why would the mages not take over Demacia like she and Veigar took over Berwick? Perhaps it was true that those born with magic were born evil; was her family just in denying her, then? Was it her who was wrong all along? It was a terrible thought, one that hit her like a poisoned spear. She wanted to have a choice... She wanted to be the one to decide to conquer the world with her master. She didn't want to just accept her fate.

She wanted to be a scorned witch. She didn't want to be a broken human.

"Ah, I think I heard the bell again," Evonna said all of sudden and turned to run back into the shop, leaving Syndra behind with a lot of pins in her attire. The witch was afraid to move, but when the seamstress wasn't returning, she was forced to go looking for her. As soon as she peeked out of the backroom, she knew there was trouble.

Evonna's new customers didn't look like customers at all. It was a trio of soldiers, led by a sour-faced woman wearing a strange pair of red goggles. She had a crossbow on her back, and both Vera and Luke were reaching for their rapiers.

"You've no right to dictate the law of High Silvermere," Vera barked, "you may at best repeat it, and you'd do well to remember it bows to the blood of the noble families."

"That is perhaps true for lesser decrees," the woman's voice was rough and raspy, "but hardly for the laws issued by Jarvan himself. Spirits are not allowed to walk freely as their touch infects humans with dark magic."

"That's a ridiculous notion," Veigar said pressed himself into the armchair, "that's not how it works at all."

"You'd know, wouldn't you?" the woman hissed; the victorious smile on her face boded ill for the warlock. She leaned against his chair, a hand on each armrest, and looked into his amber eyes.

"I happen to know a lot about the world," Veigar seemed unphased, "as a traveling merchant."

"Strange," the woman mused, "I could've sworn I met a spirit that looked just like you some odd twenty years ago. He was a mage."

"Are you saying all yordles look the same?" he asked, "that's racist."

"Please, revered lady Avery," Evonna whispered, "I want no trouble in my shop. I am sure this can be solved peacefully."

The woman with the crossbow stoped fuming in Veigar's face and straightened up. That gave the warlock the opportunity to slide past her and walk towards the half-hidden Syndra.

"Show yourself, girl," he beckoned her enthusiastically, "finally some proper clothes!"

Syndra clutched the drape she was hiding behind, not letting her eyes off Avery and her men. She could tell they were up to no good, but when they finally made their move, she was too slow to stop them. Avery's heeled boot hit Veigar's neck in a split second, pushing him to the ground; the wizard gasped in pain and surprise, though his first reaction was to shake his head at Syndra.

 _Not now,_ his eyes were telling her, _not here._

"You won't always have powerful friends at your back, Veigar," Avery hissed, forced to let her foot off the warlock when the Dupont twins drew their swords and showed her just how serious they were about the ordeal, "and once you don't, I'll find you."

"You'll be lucky if you don't get kicked from the hunting society after this," Vera hissed, "get lost, Avery, or this will end in blood."

Syndra didn't know or care whether the huntress didn't provoke a fight out of courtesy, or because she feared the power of the twins; it took her all of her effort not to shred Avery to bits with her magic, and as soon as she turned to leave, the witch jumped to her unforunate mentor. The needles in her dress pinched her skin, but she cared for his pain far more than her own.

"Cursed harpy," the warlock hissed when he finally manage to pick himself up from the floor, "and I thought Lautrec finished her."

"Are you alright?" Syndra helped him get back on his feet, hovering close to him. Her voice was still trembling with anger.

"I think so." Veigar rubbed the back of his neck. "Still, not something I'd willingly go through again."

"I don't want any trouble," Evonna muttered, "are you criminals? I don't sell my wares to criminals."

"Oh, Eva," Vera rolled her eyes, "don't tell me you believe what Avery says. Everybody knows she's crazy."

An uneasy bout of silence followed; it was Syndra who seized the initiative to end it, beckoning the seamstress with her to finish the dress. She wanted to be out of the city as soon as possible.

"If she comes back while I'm gone, I swear she won't get off as easily again," she fumed on her way to the backroom, "I refuse to just watch as you get stomped."

"It seems you've got quite the protector in your apprentice," Luke noted to the yordle, "how romantic."

"Yes, very," Veigar uttered dryly as he returned to his armchair, "I can assure you that her reasons for protecting my fur are anything but romantic."

Syndra canted her head, but didn't say anything. Not here, not now - to get back to the manor was now her first priority. That she would be back within hours - and willingly - was something she couldn't even begin to imagine back then.

  


While the marble rooms of the Dupoint mansion seemed wondrous at first, they quickly lost their luster as one passed from one to another, then another, and then another. There was little variety, and at a certain point they became a vain demonstration of opulence rather than something to admire. Wandering those silent, spacious halls alone, Syndra could hear the echo of every one of her steps and thoughts, and it was slowly driving her mad until she finally found a corridor that differed a little from the rest: a long gallery of family portraits. It depicted every Dupont ancestor since the house's elevation to noble status centuries ago, starting with a fox-faced woman by the name of Cecelia Harris-Dupont. It was her painting that Syndra sat beneath, imagining herself to be the progenitor of a great family, a well-remembered and cherished figure of the past that beckoned the respect of her children and great-children. In truth, Syndra knew little of families, noble or otherwise, and what they were supposed to be like; it was simply something that was always out of her reach, something to be dreamt of and envied.

After hours spent with just her melancholy, she was finally found by Veigar, who had just finished setting his meticulously prepared curse into motion. He didn't say anything right away, instead trying to find out just what exactly fascinated her about the portrait so much. His eyes darted between the face of Cecelia and Syndra's own as if he was making a comparison, looking for similar features. There were none; Cecelia was Demacian, not Ionian, and no matter how hard Syndra tried to replicate her playful smirk, the witch simply lacked the nonchalance and haughtiness of the noblewoman.

"Is it true that magic makes people evil?" Syndra asked after a while, not letting her eyes off the painting, "it seems unfair to be born with a fate like that."

"I don't believe in fate," Veigar answered plainly, "to think somebody decides your life for you is the mark of a weakling."

She looked at him. "Certainly somebody decides our purpose, though."

"Who?"

"I don't know. The gods."

"I've spent centuries locked in a small cell, alone. Every day I was given a choice: my life, or my sanity," he finally confessed his unpleasant memories, but his eyes seemed so distant that Syndra wasn't even sure if it was him telling her. "I cannot afford to start thinking that some higher being I am wholly helpless against intended this. I would lose whatever is left of my mind."

As harrowing as the topic was, he seemed relieved to have shared those words, and Syndra was grateful for his trust. She lifted her hand and gently squeezed his fingers. "I'm sorry. I would trade with you if I could."

He let out a resigned sigh. "You've the same fault I do. You were chewed by the world and spat out broken, bleeding, vengeful, but no matter how hard you try, you can't shake your conscience, your compassion."

"It's hard not to imagine myself in others' places," she tried pulling him closer, "I want my revenge, but I don't want to become like the people I hate in the process."

"It's a dangerous way to be," he noted, brushing against her shoulder, "I wish I had the heart to make you more ruthless."

"I don't need to be ruthless." She tugged him closer once again. "I need my magic, and I need you."

He couldn't possibly be oblivious to her intent now, and still he hesitated. "Why don't you spare these efforts for somebody taller?"

"Because they're not you."

It was that simple. Of course, back when she still believed in better tomorrows, Syndra imagined a lot of things going differently; like the other girls in her village, she liked to dream of the mysterious _Kinkou_ and hope that one day a dashing blademaster of the order would come to swoop her off her feet and show her a life of romance and adventure. She didn't understand much back then, and she still didn't understand much, but she felt no resentment or regret after pulling the warlock in and sharing her first kiss with him and not one of her childhood heroes. It was a strange experience; Veigar's doubt dissipated entirely and he dug her claws into her as if she was to abandon him any moment now. He was desperate, this little man in her arms, and it was for the first time that Syndra felt truly wanted by somebody, anybody; the pain of him clawing into her skin was nothing in comparison with that overwhelming feeling of joy and validation.

Unfortunately, it did not last.

The wizard was quick to push himself away, and she was too slow to stop him. Suddenly there was a foot of space between them, then two; Veigar pressed his hands to his furry temples and shook his head, turning his back to her.

"I'm a villain!" he squeaked, "but not _that_ villainous - not enough to take advantage of a girl that knows nobody else, no better!"

"Or maybe," she hissed and pushed herself up on her feet, "you could stop treating me as a child. I'm almost as old as you."

"One does not age in magical sleep!" he turned to her, furious with himself and her both, "this—I—you don't know what you want. You think you do, but you don't."

His ears were twitching wildly, and Syndra could see that he was afraid. She didn't know what he was afraid of, though.

"What if I proved I was serious?"

He pushed his claws to his nose as thoughts filled his head, disturbing a very fragile balance. Syndra wanted to embrace him, but he wouldn't let her; he lashed out at each one of her attempts to soothe him, to stop him from trembling, and when he finally regained some of his composure, he simply turned on his heel and began marching away.

"Go to sleep," he said in an insufferably condescending tone, "we are done talking about this."

Syndra was left fuming before the portrait of Cecelia Harris-Dupont, watching the stubborn warlock leave; she could've sworn that were she a little more mad she would've begun blowing smoke from her nostrils. And that was good, because all that rage gave her a truly terrible idea. She knew immediately that she would not be able to execute it alone however, and so she turned like the warlock did and walked in the opposite direction, towards the chambers of Vera Dupont. That she was not supposed to bother the nobles this late was the last thing on her mind now.

And Vera Dupont couldn't sleep anyway.

The young lady was used to sleeping in the room next to her brother's, and his incessant coughing and sneezing now kept her wide awake. It also made her worry; she knew that his illness was magically induced, but she still feared for his health. What if the warlock misjudged Luke's resilience? What if his spell had unexpected consequences? She was always told that magic was volatile and never did exactly what it was beckoned to do, so she assumed that the curse placed on her brother would be no different.

Still, being slowly eaten away by worry was no fun. When somebody knocked on her door, she jumped up from her bed, ready for any kind of distraction. She expected a servant, or perhaps her father to come asking about her brother's state; she certainly did not anticipate seeing Syndra on the other side.

"May I?" the witch asked, and Vera quickly let her in, both afraid and excited about the news the sorceress could be bringing.

"Did something happen?" Vera wondered, pulling her sleeping robe closer to her body. She invited Syndra to sit down on one of the couches and make herself comfortable, but the witch didn't bother.

"Yes and no," Syndra stared out of one of the large windows in Vera's chambers, "the woman who threatened us today in the shop - Avery. you know her?"

"Huh," Vera tilted her head in curiosity, "not personally, but Natalie Avery is quite infamous in High Silvermere. I know father had some unpleasant dealings with her."

"I asked Veigar about Malcolm," Syndra mused, "he confirmed your theory and told me that he was a mage that was executed shortly after you were born. I will bet you anything that if Avery recognized Veigar, she will know more about your uncle."

"Exciting," Vera held her breath, "but how are we going to make her talk?"

Syndra smiled, and Vera could tell it was the bad kind of smile. The _'we're about to get in trouble'_ kind of smile.

"We're going to go and ask her. And if she doesn't talk, I'll make her."

"Avery has a house in the city," Vera was already running to her wardrobe, "getting inside won't be easy. Are you sure we can take her?"

"I've dealt with worse." Syndra perked a brow. "You just need to get me there. I'll do the rest."

"This is amazing," Vera cheered quietly whilst pulling on her tunic and leather doublet, "but hey, do me a favor - don't tell father, okay?"

"Of course," the witch winked at her, "my lips are sealed..."

  


As they stood in the darkened city streets somewhere above the house of Natalie Avery, Syndra thought about how Veigar was right in that she did need to become more ruthless. She didn't need him to make her that way, however; the bag tucked behind her belt proved that she was fully capable of this herself. Vera asked about its purpose as they snuck through High Silvermere, and Syndra didn't hesitate to lie about how she needed the ingredients inside it for some magic. It held no strange trinkets or spices, however; only a single silver knife pocketed from the Dupont kitchens.

"Avery is not very rich," Vera whispered as they neared the rocky slope the manor was carved into, "she could never afford a house like that. The bottom level is a bakery; she rents an apartment at the top."

"You know an awful lot about this woman."

"I wanted to be a monster hunter, once," Vera confessed, "before I learned about the kind of things they did."

A yawning city guardsman passed by them, wearily nodding at Vera. After he'd gotten out of their sight, Vera and Syndra dashed towards the fenced edge of the cobbled street, climbing over the rail and carefully scaling down the mountainside. It wasn't a difficult task, even in the dark; the slope wasn't too steep, and they could easily run down to the flat roof of Avery's house. If anybody noticed them, they didn't care; the guardsmen weren't alarmed, likely too tired to pay attention or assuming them to be just street rats doing stupid shenanigans late at night.

"Good, I don't think anybody's heard us," Vera ducked on the stone and began crawling towards the edge of the roof, "now watch this. We practiced this forever, but never against a real window."

Syndra perked a brow, but before she could ask, Vera swung over the edge, kicking in the highest window and jumping into the building. The wooden shutters cracking under her boots made a lot of noise, and Syndra was forced to follow quickly before being noticed. That the room they intruded was dark an empty was sheer fortune, and Avery must've been alerted to their presence now wherever she was.

"Are you stupid?" Syndra hissed quietly as Vera drew her rapier, "we were supposed to be stealthy!"

The girl opened her mouth to argue, but a loud noise coming from downstairs made her reconsider. She pressed her finger to her lips and started approaching the door in silent paces, like a cat ready to pounce. Syndra figured Vera wanted to ambush the monster hunter, and so she followed; it was the best plan they had now.

Except it wasn't.

Syndra never knew if Vera's fault was at her poor observation of the house or her reckless heroism; regardless, their initial assumption that the invaded room was empty proved to be wrong when a bolt shot out of the dark and pierced Vera's thigh. The noblewoman whimpered and dropped her blade; she followed it to the ground soon afterwards, unable to stand on her bleeding leg. Another deadly arrow whistled through the air, spelling Syndra's doom; her reflexes were fortunately faster than her panicking mind, and her emerging globes of dark magic saved her from certain death. Another dart bounced off her inky shield before the attacker finally revealed herself; Natalie Avery swung from the rusty ceiling lamp above the door and stood before the adventurous duo. She was fully armored - and fully expecting them, it seemed.

"I knew you'd be coming right as I saw you in the shop," she sneered, discarding her crossbow and drawing a silvery blade, "maybe not today, maybe not in a year, but I knew you'd be coming."

"Yeah?" Syndra made a step back, squinting. Vera tried grasping for her dropped rapier but Avery stepped on her wrist, forcing another pained yelp from the girl.

"You witches never learn," Natalie seethed and, without any further warning, leapt at Syndra. The sorceress retaliated in the only way she knew; she sent her dark energy against the monster hunter in full force, blasting the woman back and through the wooden door. Somehow that didn't kill her; even with a hole in her chest, Avery still wheezed and twitched, trying to lift her blade. Syndra recalled her orbs and began walking towards the dying huntress, only to have her ankle grabbed by Vera.

"Malcolm," the girl sniffled, "before she dies..."

Syndra narrowed her eyes, and when Vera let go of her, continued towards Natalie. She could barely see her in the dark; only her red goggles glowed in the poor light. Syndra pushed them off Avery's face with her boot, watching as hatred as life drained out of her eyes. She thought she would be sickened like she was in Berwick, but she only felt immense satisfaction. She felt like a cat that had just caught a mouse, the master of somebody's life and death, her mentor's vengeance. Every spasm and shiver of the woman's body filled her with pride and triumph, her blood rushing in pleasure.

"Syndra!"

No questions were asked then; Natalie Avery died in silence, bleeding out on the cold floor. It was as pathetic as Syndra desired it to be, and when it was finally over, she knelt above the dead woman's chest and took out the knife out of the bag. It was only then that she hesitated, and Vera used the time to crawl over to her.

"Gods," she whimpered, "what have we done?"

"She attacked first," Syndra growled, the knife glowing in her hand, "you saw yourself."

"I didn't want to kill her," Vera sobbed, holding her wrist, "I don't want to be a murderer."

"A bit late for that now."

"We have to tell somebody," the girl turned to Syndra, "father, the king. This—this is not the Dupont way."

Syndra frowned. "You wanted to keep it secret."

"Breaking into her house and asking a few questions!" Vera cried, "adventure—not godsdamned _murder!"_

"It's too late for that now," Syndra's voice was as cold as ice, "stop freaking out. I'll bring you home."

"I'm not a murderer," the girl began weeping, "I don't want to be a murderer. _You_ killed her."

"Yeah," Syndra pushed the knife to Avery's neck, "I did. Do you feel better now?"

"We need to tell father," Vera kept blubbering, "we have to tell him what happened. We have to—we have to do justice."

Instead of cutting into the monster hunter's skin, Syndra looked at the bawling girl. It was only now that she realized the full extent of their differences, and where the main one lie; when everything went south, Vera had people she could rely on. She would never face any real consequences as the spoiled daughter of a nobleman, even if she was tried for a murder she didn't really commit. Syndra was alone. Nobody was for there, ever - and the only ticket out of this solitary hell was Avery's head. Vera could never understand that.

"Shut up," Syndra barked, "we're not telling anybody. You wanted an adventure, so here you have it. Didn't you say you liked blood, that it was _badass?"_

Somehow, that only made Vera cry more. Syndra rolled her eyes, irritated; she didn't want to waste more time, and so she finally dug into Avery's neck. Even as the little blade cut veins, flesh, sinew, Syndra did not feel nauseous; perhaps it was for the best that there was so little light in the hallway. She didn't get far, though; Vera's only healthy hand grabbed hers, halting the butchery.

And when Syndra yanked her wrist out of the girl's grasp and flipped the knife in her hand, she once again wondered if it was magic that made her the way she was.

When the little blade slid between Vera's ribs, Syndra didn't feel relieved like she did with Avery. She felt _just._ Yes, this was _justice_ \- not the Duponts' vapid blathering about heroism, but that Vera's joyous life would be a short one, whereas Syndra had to spend centuries suffering. To kill Vera was to even the scales, and so she stabbed again, and again, until there was silence.

The azure fabric of her new dress was ruined, but she didn't care, not now. She wiped her hand clean of blood so it would stop slipping off the knife handle and returned to the monster hunter. The little blade chipped her spine bit by bit until her head was finally severed from her body and ready to be thrown in the linen bag. After she tied it and threw it over her shoulder, Syndra spared one last glance for Vera Dupont.

 _Farewell,_ she thought, _may you have better dreams than I did._

  


"Veigar."

He slept in a spacious room full of clutter and whirring clocks, probably because he didn't want to be reminded of the little empty cells that haunted his past. The dark wizard looked troubled even as he slept, furrowing his fuzzy brows and mumbling under his breath; Syndra could only guess that he was again beset by nightmares. It made her feel a little better about trying to wake him up.

"Veigar."

He stirred, just a little. She wanted to go and hide underneath the blankets with him, but she couldn't. She already went further than she should've by entering his room and watching him sleep. Somehow, she felt more guilty about that than murdering two people earlier that night.

"Veigar..."

He slowly opened his eyes, and he smiled. She didn't expect that, not after what happened earlier; she thought she had embarrassed him, that he found her annoying and a little unworthy.

"Syndra," he whispered and purred, "you're here."

"I'm here," she said, "with you."

"I'm sorry," the warlock turned to lie on his side, "I'm sorry about what I said earlier."

She lowered her head, looking at the bloody sack in her lap. The moonlight that fell in through the large glass windows behind the chair she was sitting on cast her face and her gift in shadow, and she wondered if Veigar had noticed it.

"I'll be braver one day," he continued, "I'll be... Better. And then I'll tell you."

"Tell me what, Veigar?"

"That I—I..."

Whatever he was about to say was left unspoken as the yordle fell silent. His blissful smile disappeared, replaced by an unsettled frown; he sat up rapidly, blinking at his apprentice.

"Syndra?!"

She stared back in confusion, until she realized that he had probably thought her a dream.

"I'm here," she said again as he pushed his covers away, "with you."

"What are you doing here?" he hissed when his feet landed on the cold floor, "what—Doran's mercy, you're all bloody. What happened? Are you hurt?"

"I'm not," she muttered, "I'm sorry for the intrusion. I thought—I don't know. I thought it would be better this way."

"What would be better this way?" he asked, quickly crossing the distance between them and setting his eyes on her lap. "What is this?"

"I brought you a proof," she tried swallowing the knot in her throat, "that I care."

He stared at her with a mixture of despair and disbelief in her face, and she had a feeling he knew what she had brought him before she even untied the sack and held the head of Natalie Avery before him. It seemed so crude now, so brutal. So worthless. An ugly dead head of an ugly dead woman. She should've brought him jewels and gold.

"W—wh—" he struggled to speak after she dropped the gift into his hands, "what happened?!"

All of sudden, she felt like she had made the worst choice. Not because Natalie Avery and Vera Dupont were dead, but because Veigar didn't like it, and she didn't know how to make up for it. She now found herself foolish for having expected him to dance around in joy after she'd brought him a severed head; it was stupid, and she was embarrassed. She pulled her head between her shoulders, leaving him without an answer.

" _What_ did you do?" Veigar pressed his question, dropping the head to the floor and stepping closer, "don't you know how dangerous the monster hunters are?"

"She didn't do anything to me," Syndra mumbled, "she died very quickly."

He wasn't shy to climb up on her now vacant lap, where he sat whilst trying to read her face. His was still full of distress, but moreso than that there was worry in it, a genuine fear for her wellbeing.

"Why?" he asked while his claws traced her dirty chin and pushed wet hair away from her face. Her eyes evaded his inquisitive stare; she couldn't stand it.

"It was the best idea I had," her voice wavered, "I wanted to impress you."

"I'm so stupid," he wheezed, "I don't know why I thought saying what I did would make you just forget, _you_ of all people. You're too much like me."

"Is that a good thing?"

"No," he leaned forward, "no, not at all."

But it didn't matter, anyway. She was glad to have him in her arms again, continuing what they started in the portrait hall. Her clothes were still drenched from her clumsy escape from High Silvermere, and to have the fuzzy little warlock sit on top of her meant she got to feel a bit less cold. His black fur was silky to the touch and she could not help herself but press it between her fingers and play with it; that he not only let her, but encouraged her to do so was proof enough of how much he enjoyed it.

"How did you even find her?" the warlock asked after he broke their kiss and rested his head on her shoulder, "did you just spend the entire night tracking Avery?"

"Vera led me there."

He looked up. "Vera? She knows about the whole thing?"

"She _did."_

He frowned, pushing the azure fabric off her right shoulder. His claws danced on her skin. "What happened?"

"I don't know." She rested her forehead against his. "I got angry."

He let out a long sigh. "We'll need to get out of here. Fast."

He pushed himself off her lap and went to look for his hat. She pouted.

"But nobody saw me."

"And the bodies?" he snapped his fingers at her, "did you get rid of them, eh?"

"No." Syndra felt very small now. Especially in mind. "I just left them there."

"And it's only a matter of time until they get discovered," he clapped, "so get up and get changed, we need to be far away from here before the place is swarming with monster hunters. Chop chop!"

"But the only other clothes I have are the Ronzel rags."

"Well, maybe you should've thought about that before you went around stabbing people," he teased her, "now go. If we're still here by dawnbreak, we're going to be in a lot of trouble."

 


	3. Memento Mori

Without horses or a carriage to take them back, their escape back to Berwick took much longer than their journey to High Silvermere. They were forced to stay in Uwendale overnight, hiding from public view; even with the king's forces stretched thin due to the war, it was only a matter of time until Lautrec sent somebody after them to Berwick. If he knew to send Ronzel letters there, then he now knew where Veigar and Syndra were headed, and the death of his daughter was not going to go unanswered. They needed to find a new safe place, preferably out of Demacia.

Something good came of it at least; as they huddled together in the stables of Uwendale's inn, Veigar finally got himself a night full of restful sleep. He was curled up in the witch's embrace, calm like the cloudless sky above; Syndra elected to not sleep at all, instead watching over her mentor. Without his magic and his posturing, he looked so fragile. She'd sworn to herself that she would never let anything happen to him.

Unfortunately, bad luck followed them all the way to Berwick; it began raining in the morning, and when they finally reached the lake, the boat wasn't there. Only the ferryman sat on the pier, dipping his feet in the cold water. His thin, white hair stuck to his skull like a spider's web.

"Hey, old man," Veigar yelled over the relentless downpour, "where's your boat?"

The elder slowly pushed himself up and began walking towards them. With each step his stride became more rigid, labored; he passed them without a word, every inch weighing him down as if he was carrying the entire world. And when his flesh and skin started turning to stone, Syndra finally understood his suffering, yet she and her master could only watch as the man before them became a lifeless statue.

They exchanged a couple of uncertain looks.

"This is... Inconvenient," Veigar noted, "we'll have to go around."

"Adaline said he was cursed," Syndra muttered, following the warlock through the wet grass, "that Ronzel did this to him."

"I know he did. I taught him how."

The rest of their journey happened in silence, disturbed only by the storm lashing the land around them. They had to walk all the way towards the mountains and then take a narrow rocky path to Berwick. Aside from the tower, the city wasn't walled; they could easily slip down behind the inn and breeze right onto the main road. And even if Berwick wasn't Syndra's home, not truly, she still felt relieved to be back now, even if that peace was not to last for long.

It was much shorter that she anticipated to be, even.

As soon as they appeared on the slippery road, they were pointed at, yelled at and shortly after also surrounded. The soaked villagers murmured to each other, calling the conufused Syndra and her frowning master everything from murderers to tyrants, and the witch felt her heart sinking in fear that the news from High Silvermere reached Berwick before they did. There were no monsters hunters, however, and as soon as Veigar realized this, he took a firm stance and displayed his staff for everybody to see.

"My benevolence has its limits," he thundered at the gathering, "let us go home."

"You killed her," somebody cried, "you killed captain Deidra."

"She always looked out for us!"

Syndra turned around, nauseauted by the gathered circle closing in on them. Her eyes stopped on Adaline, standing just a few feet away with her hands clasped on her chest and a look of betrayal in her eyes.

"You killed her," her lips spelled, "you killed my mother."

The ground trembled, soaked with black magic. A crack appeared in the cobblestone, and the circle began loosening. Somebody grabbed Syndra's shivering hand and dragged her away, far from the staring crowd and behind doors where they could not reach her.

"Blasted peasantry!" Veigar threw his hands up in the tower's narrow stairway, "they _always_ have a problem with something!"

"But I didn't kill the woman," Syndra grasped for breath, "Adaline's mother. I helped her!"

"Who cares?" Veigar hissed, "they can all drop dead for all I care!"

He began climbing the stairs, and it took Syndra a while to follow. She couldn't let Adaline's face out of her mind; those accusing eyes that asked for a reason, any reason. Did the potion not work?

"We'll leave tomorrow afternoon," Veigar announced when she finally climbed up to the lounge, "I need to sort out the rest of Ronzel's letters and see if he has anything of use hidden here."

"You think we've got the time?" Syndra asked, sitting down on the couch and eyeing the warlock as he ran from one end of the room to the other. He tossed away his dripping hat and set his fluffy ears loose. So, so fluffy.

"I'm certain we've got much more," he answered idly, tossing away his staff and coat, "you can relax. I'm quite confident I can delete two or three monster hunters on my own, too."

He started looking through the shelves and chests that littered the room, searching for any items of importance. Syndra shook her head and rose from the sofa again, stalking her little master with curiosity - and want. He turned to her with a questioning look after she'd shadowed him for a while, and she used this opportunity to pick him up and press him against the window behind. He didn't try to worm out of her grasp, but he didn't seem too happy about it, either.

"How about you help me with my search?" he proposed when she leaned against him, holding him up with her body, "and if we find something interesting, maybe we could have another lesson."

"I'd rather have this."

"I can tell why your previous teacher didn't have much luck with you."

She frowned. He booped her nose.

"Don't give me that face," he reasoned with her, "we'll have to start sooner or later."

"Later," she mumbled, "definitely later."

They locked in another sweet embrace, and Syndra thought about how it had been worth two murders. Not just two - she'd kill a thousand if she had to, just for a piece of this little mage. And now that she had him whole, she finally felt a lasting respite from the shadows of her past, the harrowing darkness within. Of course, the scars were still there - but with Veigar close, they were a little less painful, a little less visible. She was content. She was at peace.

Still, there was a question she could not shake.

As they lie next to one another in the loft that night, Syndra listened to the rain drops drumming against the tower roof and recalled the eyes of Adaline. Veigar dismissed her concerns, but she couldn't; for whatever reason, she didn't wish to hurt the maid. She gave her her damned shoes, she had faith in her; she called her a _good_ witch. Syndra now knew that she was anything but that, but the girl's innocence and belief were things she didn't wish to shatter.

Perhaps it was too late for that. But she still needed to know.

She sat up on the edge of the bed, and the warlock reached out for her in his sleep. She nuzzled against his claws and let him rest; she could handle this alone. Quietly she snuck out and down the stairs and began digging up more of Ronzel's clothes, some that weren't entirely drenched; that she looked ridiculous in his filigreed vests was of no concern to her now, as almost nobody was going to see her anyway. The damp streets of Berwick were empty this late, and Syndra was grateful for this; still she ran quickly, to not get herself soaked and to be back with her mentor as soon as possible.

The wharf looked almost mystical now, shrouded in rising mist and beaten by the thick rain. Syndra almost expected malicious spirits to rise from the lake, but the only malevolence present was her pressing guilt. She feared that Adaline might not answer, or perhaps even call a mob to lynch her; after she knocked on the doors of the house where she now lived alone, this feeling only grew. But Adaline wasn't afraid, even if she was no witch, and so she opened after the third round of knocks, her eyes tired and still carrying that accusing look to them.

"I didn't want to kill your mother," Syndra blurted out before the girl could say anything, "I wanted to help. Veigar told me how to brew the potion."

"You should never have trusted him," Adaline's voice was heavy with sorrow, "he hates us all."

"Sometimes he helps. He wouldn't lie to me."

Adaline stepped aside and let the witch inside her hovel. Syndra looked around the miserable cottage, no longer thick with the scent of a dying woman. Funerary flowers lie by the windows, a simple yet beautiful _memento mori._

"It was a healing potion," Syndra spoke again when the door closed, "I brewed it exactly as he told me. And I saw your mother, I saw how she stopped coughing."

"It was dark magic," Adaline whispered, lighting a little candle on the table, "a vile curse meant to undo her. She's gone."

"What happened?"

Adaline sat down, hiding her face in her hands. It took her a while to speak.

"She was... Getting better," her voice was strained, shaking, "breathing... Eating... Walking. And then one day she was gone, leaving behind nothing but a note of her passing."

"Gone?" Syndra asked, "did you bury her?"

"There was nothing to bury," Adaline pursed her lips, "my mother was no more."

"So she just _disappeared?"_ Syndra was confused, "how do you know she didn't just leave?"

"And where would she go?" Adaline cried, "my mother - she was the mayor of Berwick long before your kind came here. She would not abandon her people like that."

Syndra stared at the maid, unsure what to say. Could a potion make one disappear? Did Veigar really lie to her - or did he simply make a mistake? If he told Ronzel how to curse Adaline's father, then perhaps he had no love for the rest of the family either.

"The note," she said, "can you read it to me? Please."

Adaline looked at her with distrust in her eyes, unwillingness. In the end the pleading eyes of the sorceress convinced her however, and she went to open her one and only painted chest to fetch the grim letter. It was a single piece of old parchment; she returned with it to the candlelight.

 _"The cold ones always hunger,"_ Adaline read quietly, _"and so I go to them, for we will die free rather than slaves to the hellbinders."_

Syndra sat next to the maid. She didn't understand.

"Death always hungers," Adaline closed her eyes, "its cold grasp. My mother refused to bow to wizards, and she died free."

"I..." Syndra paused. "I am sorry, Adaline. I never wanted this."

"I know," Adaline's voice was once again heavy with pain, "I see it in your eyes that fate did not treat you well. But you are strong. You don't have to become like the dark wizards."

"I don't think I still have this choice." Syndra's smile was bitter, cold. "I'm sorry for this, Adaline. At least you're free of Ronzel and his curses."

"And my father?"

Syndra couldn't tell her. Not now. She didn't have the heart, the strength.

"I will look into it," she said and stood up, "stay safe, Adaline."

"And you, lady witch. You always have a choice."

Walking back out into the punishing rain felt almost liberating. It poured over Syndra and washed away her anxiety, but it could not take away her guilt. Vera... Vera deserved her fate, and so did Avery. But Adaline didn't.

_And who are you to name yourself the judge of life and death?_

Syndra hid her hands in the pockets of the silken vest, wishing for answers she didn't have. It seemed to her now that she had to choose - to try and be _good,_ or to try and be _happy._ The latter came through Veigar, and she was not going to abandon him. Yet she swore to herself that she'd kill thousands if he so wished, but now that Adaline's mother was gone, she felt terrible. Everything seemed so difficult.

And then, just as the storm began to relent, a distant sound of a warhorn heralded the break of dawn. Syndra looked up and saw the most beautiful image before her eyes, light breaking in colorful patterns beneath the sky as it gave way to the morning sun. And behind it, the mountainside; and upon it, moving figures. They ran down the rocky climbs, jumping from crag to crag like Ionian tigers.

And it was only then that Syndra realized that Adaline's mother didn't die, not by her hand. The cold in her letter was not death, it was the Freljord. The terrible Freljord with its bloodthirsty warriors and their blades made of pure ice.

"Veigar!" Syndra yelled at the top of her lungs, her voice echoing above Berwick as she sprinted back to the tower. By the time she'd reached it, the village bell was already ringing, for the first time before noon. And Veigar was blissfully snoozing through all of it. Wet from rain and sweat as she'd run all the way up the tower, Syndra had to shake him to wake him up.

"Veigar," she panted, "Veigar, we're in trouble."

"When are we _not_ in trouble?" he grumbled and tried pulling her down. She brushed him off.

"This is big trouble," she cried, "the village is under attack. I saw some people scale down the mountain from the Freljord."

Veigar opened his eyes, frowning. "What?"

"Adaline's mother. She didn't die. I think she went there and told them to come here."

"Fire and cinders," Veigar muttered, pushing her aside and jumping out of the bed. He grabbed his bathrobe off a nearby chair and tied it at his waist. "Curse this tower, then. We're leaving."

"But Berwick doesn't even have any guards," Syndra argued, "they'll just get slaughtered."

"You want to protect the people that almost lynched us yesterday?" Veigar turned to her, fuming, "forget them, girl. I'm not in the mood to fight off a Freljord assault."

"Can't we do something _good_ for _once?"_ Syndra spat out, "everywhere we go we just _ruin_ things."

"And what good has the world done for us?!" Veigar hissed, "nothing! Girl—Syndra... If it was just me, then perhaps, but—"

He let out a tired sigh. She walked over to him, kneeling before him and squeezing his shoulders.

"You don't have to fear for my safety," she said, "we'll protect one another."

They stood there in silence, wasting time they did not have. After a while, Veigar nodded.

"You must not let their weapons touch you," he urged her as he ran for his staff, "one True Ice arrow and—curses, I don't even know."

They rushed to the lodging room together. Raindrops stuck to the glass panes after the weakening storm, though they couldn't stop and admire their shine. Veigar rushed to one of the windows, commanding Syndra to open it; the girl obeyed, and a large globe of dark magic shot through it shortly afterwards, flying towards the rocky mountain and shattering a few crags. They rumbled down the mountain, but it was too late to try and bury the invaders under an avalanche. They were too close, and Syndra and Veigar were forced to duck beneath the window to avoid being hit by arrows.

"Normal projectiles," Veigar noted after a bolt whistled above their heads, "they might not have any Iceborn with them. That would make everything much easier."

"Do you have a plan?"

"Go see if you can tell the villagers to hide. I'll prepare some spells."

The yordle waved his staff and began mumbling incantations. Syndra nodded and crawled over to the door, where she finally dared to get back up on her legs and run down the stairs. Her heart was beating wildly; her magic protected her before, but was it going to be enough now? Just how dangerous was this grand, heroic idea?

After she burst out of the tower, she saw dark pillars rising around Berwick. She figured that Veigar's magic was now set in motion, but didn't stop to ponder it. She ran out of the courtyard gate and into the slippery streets, full of panicked villagers trying to devise their own battle plan.

"We have to run!" somebody cried, "we have no warriors!"

"But the ice men can run as fast as a horse," another argued, "we'd never escape."

"Listen!" Syndra shouted over the crowd, "listen to me! You have to hide!"

"It's the witch." A hundred faces turned to her, and she suddenly felt so small. "She's come to tell us to get slaughtered!"

"This is your fault!"

"We will protect you," Syndra looked over her shoulder to see if Veigar's barrier was still standing, "we can fight the Freljord. You just need to lock yourselves in your homes and not come out."

"She's lying."

The desperate sorceress looked around the crowd, only to see a young girl pushing herself through it. Adaline was coming, and she was coming to Syndra's aid.

"We have no other choice," the maid called, "if the witch says she can protect us, then let's give her a chance."

"She killed your mother! How can you trust her after all she's done?"

"I didn't kill her!" Syndra yelled angrily, "she survived! She's the one who brought the Freljord warriors!"

"That's not true!"

"She's lying again!"

Adaline and Syndra exchanged a questioning look, but they both knew they had no time to argue now. The barrier was weakening.

"We can't outrun them anyway," Adaline cried, "we have to hide. Go!"

Syndra wasn't sure whether it was Adaline's words or the falling barrier that finally made the villagers move, but she was glad that _something_ did. It was too late for some, still; the barbarians came barrelling in like a crashing wave, chanting warcries and brandishing their crude weapons. One of them was not like the others; a pale woman carrying a gruesome axe of ice, adorned in skulls of beasts and men she'd slain. Unfortunately, Syndra did not get a good look at her; just as she was about to send out her spheres, a dark comet crashed into the street between them, burying two of the bloodthirsty warriors and a villager that was too slow to run from either. Syndra staggered backwards, dark fey mist rising all around her and obscuring her vision. She regained her balance just as a bearded berseker leapt through the shroud and straight at her; his blades sank into her inky shield, and before he could dislodge them, a dark orb pierced his torso.

"Adaline!" Syndra coughed, her assailant falling to the ground. The maid was nowhere to be seen, and Syndra could only hope that she managed to run into one of the buildings. Their plan was already falling apart, though; the vicious raiders could hardly be stopped by fragile wooden doors, and Syndra couldn't even see most of them due to the dark smoke. She heard screams all around her, though she could only blindly wander the fey mist and hope to stumble upon something to kill.

"Be wary of the Iceborn!" a familiar voice echoed somewhere behind her after she tore a fuming shield-maiden to pieces. Another dark comet fell from the sky, thickening the sparkling shroud.

"Veigar! I can't see anything," Syndra cried out, coughing, "why do you do this?!"

"Because else we'd be vulnerable to arrows and spears," he emerged next to her, clutching his staff, "they know how to exploit our weaknesses."

"We can't get all of them like this."

"No, but they can't get us either," Veigar growled, "they'll have to retreat."

He disappeared in the mist, and Syndra had no choice but to follow. She heard a female voice barking commands at the warriors, desperately trying to get them to regroup, but they were lost in the black mist just as the sorceress was. They began blindly shooting arrows, and after deflecting a few strays, Syndra was forced to take cover behind a wall. She heard sobbing somewhere nearby, perhaps from the inside of the house she was ducking by; somebody was still alive then, and they haven't failed entirely. Not yet.

After a while of silence, Syndra took her chances and dashed forwards. She bumped right into a confused spearman; they both jumped backwards, but before he could toss his javelin at her, her spheres clawed their way throug his stomach. He wheezed, swinging his weapon in a last ditch effort to take Syndra with him, but she was too quick. His death went unavenged, at least for now.

"Veigar?!" Syndra called out to the mist, but she'd gotten no answer. Instead she heard another familiar voice cry out for help; Adaline's. It wasn't far, and Syndra blindly burst into the nearest building, only to be nearly decapitated by a flying axe. That it missed her war sheer fortune; it only cut through loose strands of her hair, freezing all around it. Half of her mane turned into chiming icicles, but the frost fortunately didn't spread past that.

"You lured me into a trap," the Iceborn woman fumed, her silhouette now visible through the fey smoke, "you broke an oath."

"I had no oath with you," Syndra hissed and readied her spheres; they were never launched, as something pushed her aside and to the ground. The frozen axe whistled above her head; had she not been thrown out of its way, she would've been dead now.

"The Winter's Wrath will learn of this," the matron caught her axe just as Syndra looked up at her savior; it was none else but Veigar, already readying another spell. A glowing bolt fired from the top of his staff; the warrior leapt out of its way, only to be caught in a cage of black magic.

"Do it," Veigar barked, "your orbs, Syndra!"

The witch took a deep breath; her inky spheres rolled off her shoulder and buried themselves in the matron's thick armor. They drilled through until they found flesh, and then straight through it; she was sturdier than a regular human, but still no match for Syndra's power. The warrior-mother roared in pain, but no icy power in the world could make her withstand this dark, hungering sorcery; she fell to her knees, and after her face hit the ground, Veigar finally dared dispel his magic cell. The mist within the house was slowly dissipating, and Syndra could see Adaline huddled in a corner, holding a crying boy.

"It was—it was like she was made of ice," Adaline stuttered when Syndra knelt before her, "have they no mercy?"

As the witch helped Adaline up, Veigar walked over to the body of the fallen Iceborn. He ducked beside it, frowning at the woman's horrific axe.

And then, the matron's fingers twitched. Syndra saw it; Veigar couldn't, not from where he was. The witch cried out just as the dying warrior grasped her blade one last time, but it was too late; the axe cut deep into Veigar's side, and this couldn't be undone even by Syndra ravaging the matron with her magic again, this time making sure that she was dead. A distant howl could be heard, followed by the deep call of a warhorn. The barbarians knew now that their leader was dead, fallen somewhere within the mist.

"Go," Veigar hissed when she jumped to him, "finish them."

She couldn't, not now. The ice was spreading quickly, turning his fur into crystalline chimes. He grasped the hilt of the axe, then ripped it out with a cry of pain; the chilling curse slowed in its growth, but the wound was too deep.

"You'll survive," Syndra stammered in panic, "you'll survive, right?"

He didn't say anything, his eyes turning to the gruesome cut. It wasn't bleeding; the frost stopped that at least, but he was in great pain, and he was freezing. He looked at his apprentice, a quiet plea in his eyes; she didn't understand, and she could not ask, not after he fell to the ground and stopped shivering.

"Veigar," Syndra whimpered, full of anger and disbelief, "it will be fine. I'll make you a potion. I promise—"

She forgot about the village. She forgot about Adaline. She was stupid to decide to help them. Now she could see that. And Veigar was right, as he always was. She needed to get him back to the tower - there had to be something that could help him, anything. But when she reached down to pick him up, somebody stopped her.

"Wait," Adaline whispered, with a hand on Syndra's shoulder and the little boy still clutching to her skirt, "maybe it's... Maybe it's meant to be this way."

Syndra looked over her shoulder. For a moment, she felt nothing at all; not anger, not grief, not agony. As if she fell into the eye of the storm.

"You have a choice," Adaline clasped her hands before her mouth, "without him, you can be our good lady. He's never done anything good for us."

"He saved you all." Syndra's voice was dry, raspy. She struggled to speak. "You'd be dead without him."

"Then let his sacrifice be the payment for his sins," Adaline begged her, "fate has decided."

But Veigar didn't believe in fate. She remembered his face as he told her that, strained and full of sorrow. His confession - his trust - they were for nothing when she failed him now that it mattered most. She made a choice, a greedy one - to keep both her conscience and Veigar. But she couldn't have both. She should've known.

But perhaps it wasn't too late to fix it.

She looked into Adaline's eyes, and she could feel something die inside her. That was good; she didn't need it anymore. She only needed to weigh the scales of fate so they favored Veigar again, and that is how she saw Adaline and the frightened boy as her magic tore them apart before her; as weights that needed to be removed. They weren't enough, because when she took Veigar into her bloodied arms and lifted him up, he still wasn't shivering; he was as lifeless as the war-matron, and neither Syndra's pleas nor the morning sun returned his breaths to him. The marauders were long gone, but Syndra didn't need them to finish the job; fed by despair unlike any she'd ever felt, her spheres expanded like cancerous growths, hungrily devouring all that came to cheer for the sorceress' victory. Everything was quiet by the time she reached the tower with the warlock in her arms, the spheres hanging above her like three solemn moons. The silence persevered even after she'd covered Veigar in warm blankets and poured steaming potions into his throat and wound; nothing changed.

And she felt so empty. Despaired and nothing more; there was no anger in her, no sadness, only a swallowing void. It grew every day she sat by Veigar's bed, and when she buried him on the eve of the third, she no longer felt anything but this cold nothingness. She knew that one day her grief would catch up to her, but it was not that day and not that night. And as she walked east, she only craved one thing: more power.

So that the world could truly feel her vengeance.

 


	4. Epilogue

_Never having caught the culprit, Lautrec Dupont mourned the death of his daughter for years before his heart gave in. He died at the age of sixty, leaving the Dupont wealth to the sickly Lautrec jr., still bearing the curse of frailty._

_The village of Berwick was never settled again, deemed too prone to raids from the Freljord. It was eventually erased off the map and forgotten._

_Ionians came to fear a new dark spirit roaming the land, rumored to be a demon released from its prison by reckless Noxians. Eventually, the elusive Order of Shadows began pursuing it._

_A few days after being buried, Veigar crawled out of his grave in a very sour mood. He regretted not teaching his apprentice more about True Ice, but he was grateful for the healing potions. Finding that their union only brought twice the misfortune, he decided not to pursue her. Instead, he set out south, towards Shurima._

 


End file.
